ARTHUR  SOMERS 
ROCHE 


THE  EYES 
OF  THE  BLIND 


BY 


ARTHUR  SOMERS  ROCHE 

AUTHOR  OF  "RANSOM,"  "LOOT,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  RIDGEWAY  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


ETHEL  PETTIT  ROCHE 

WHO  MAT  NOT  HAVE  CREATED  THE  SUNSHINE, 
BUT  WHO  OWNS  IT,  AND  HTTARTRH  IT  WITH  MB 


2132392 


UNIYi  M  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELE* 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP      .... 

II  Two  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR — WHAT? 

III  CROSS-PURPOSES 

IV  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

V  MORE  SURPRISES 

VI  FRIENDS  OR  FOES? 

VII  TREASON  IN  BOOKS 

VIII  BOMBS 

IX  TANGLED  THREADS 

X  INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE   .... 

XI  LYDIA  TRAPPED 

XII  LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY        .... 

XIII  A  STRANGE  MESSAGE 

XIV  AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL       .... 
XV  THE  CROOKED  TRAIL 

XVI  "HEMMED  IN" 

XVII  DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS 

XVIII  THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT 

XIX  THE  SPY  MACHINERY 

XX  THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  .     .     . 

XXI  CAPTAIN  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES     .     . 

XXII  DEEMS  SEES  . 


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THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 


THE 

EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

CHAPTER  ONE 

TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP 

DEEMS  stared  at  the  door.  Somebody  had 
knocked,  then.  Hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
dressing-gown,  he  watched  the  door-knob  turn 
to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left.  Nervy  beggar ! 
It  was  a  happy  thought  that  had  made  Deems 
put  a  bolt  of  his  own  purchasing  on  the  door. 
Otherwise — and  he  grinned — there  would  have 
been  nothing  to  prevent  a  midnight  visitor  from 
entering  the  Deems  bachelor  apartment.  Noth- 
ing, that  is,  except  good  sense.  But  then,  as 
all  penologists  agree,  criminals  do  not  have  good 
sense.  Whoever  was  trying  to  enter  this  apart- 
ment now  bore  out  the  conclusions  of  the  students 
of  crime.  For  how  could  the  dwelling-place  of 
a  newspaper  reporter  possibly  hold  attractive 
loot  for  the  marauders  of  midnight?  Still,  it 
gave  a  fellow  quite  a  thrill.  It  was  as  though 

11 


12  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

some  one  had  asked,  quite  casually,  the  loan  of 
ten  thousand  dollars. 

He  moved  softly  to  the  door.  The  bolt  was 
oiled.  He  slid  it  back  silently.  He  threw  the 
door  open.  "Suppose,"  he  began,  "we  make  this 
absolutely  informal?  My  name  is  Deems,  but 
my  intimates  call  me  Deemsie.  Come  right  in 
and  I'll  show  you  where  I  keep  the  family 
plate." 

His  visitor  stared  at  Deems  stupidly.  He 
swayed  slightly  forward;  then,  as  Deems,  with 
sudden  recognition  of  the  man's  condition,  with- 
held the  savage  uppercut  that  the  forward  mo- 
tion had  caused  him  to  start,  the  visitor  pitched 
forward  into  the  tiny  hall.  His  clawing  hands 
tore  at  the  portiere  that  hung  between  the  hall 
and  the  living  room;  the  drapery  gave  way,  and 
with  a  rattle  of  brass  rings  he  fell  to  the  floor. 

Poor  devil!  Deems  bent  over  him.  But  no 
fumes  of  liquor  assailed  him.  He  felt  the  man's 
pulse.  Then,  his  face  suddenly  white,  Deems 
walked  to  the  telephone. 

"Apoplexy,"  said  the  police  surgeon,  fifteen 
minutes  later. 

"And  I  almost  struck  him,"  said  Deems,  self- 
reproachfully. 

"Well,  you  didn't,"  said  the  surgeon  sooth- 
ingly. 


TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP  13 

"I  know,  but — if  I'd  answered  immediately 
when  he  knocked  I  might  have  done  something — 
got  help  sooner — saved  his  life,  perhaps." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  said  the  surgeon  bruskly. 
"How  could  you  know  that  it  was  a  sick  man? 
Lots  of  people  would  have  sent  a  bullet  through 
the  door.  Anyway,  nothing  could  have  saved 
him.  Feel  nervous?  Want  something  to  make 
you  sleep?" 

"Lord,  no!"  Deems  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"I'm  not  hysterical.  It's  just — it's  a  funny 
world,  isn't  it,  Doc?  How  quick  we  are  to  as- 
sume that  the  other  fellow's  intentions  are  evil." 

"They  mostly  are,"  grunted  the  surgeon. 
"You're  a  newspaper  man,  aren't  you?" 

Deems  nodded.     "The  Record." 

The  gray  surgeon  stared  at  him.  "Better  quit 
it ;  you'll  wind  up  by  being  a  reformer  and  writ- 
ing uplift  fiction."  Then  he  slapped  Deems  in 
friendly  fashion  on  the  shoulder.  "It  is  quite 
a  shock  to  have  a  thing  like  this  happen,  but 
don't  get  morbid.  'Night." 

That's  all  there  was  to  it.  Still,  why  make 
a  to-do  about  it?  Men  were  dying  at  the  rate 
of  thousands  a  day  on  a  hundred  bloody  battle- 
fields; death,  even  sudden  death,  must  be  taken, 
not  for  a  grave  and  portentous  event,  but  for 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 


what  it  really  is,  the  casual  opening  of  a  door 
and  the  easy  stepping  into  another  life. 

Nevertheless,  when  it  is  the  door  of  one's  own 
apartment  through  which  a  stranger  has  stepped 
into  that  other  life,  one  feels  a  personal  interest 
and  obligation.  The  police  officers  who  had  ar- 
rived in  the  ambulance  had  made  a  search  of  the 
body  and  found  on  him  not  a  single  article  that 
would  indicate  his  identity.  Nor  was  there  any 
money  in  his  pockets.  And  somehow  or  other 
Deems  could  not  stomach  the  thought  of  letting 
this  unknown  end  in  the  Potters'  Field. 

Stricken  suddenly  with  a  mortal  illness,  the 
man  had  evidently  turned  in  at  the  nearest  door- 
way. Deems's  apartment  being  on  the  ground 
floor,  it  was  at  Deems's  door  that  he  had  stopped. 
Had  the  man  died  in  the  hallway,  Deems  prob- 
ably would  have  felt  no  further  interest.  But 
in  his  own  rooms!  Reporters  are  not  overbur- 
dened with  riches  as  a  general  rule,  and  Deems 
was  no  exception.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  told 
the  policemen  that  he  would,  in  the  absence  of 
identification  of  the  dead  man,  defray  his  funeral 
expenses.  At  which  quixotic  offer  they  shrugged 
their  shoulders  and  left  him. 

Some  years  of  newspaper  work,  during  which 
he  had  been  present  at  scenes  ghastly  enough  to 
harden  the  nerves,  had  not  rendered  Deems  cal- 


TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP  15 

lous.  He  was  not  stricken  with  horror,  but  at 
the  same  time  sleep  did  not  come  easily  to  him. 
It  was  such  a  miserable  finish  to  a  life  that  might 
have  begun  with  the  highest  hope.  To  die  in  the 
rooms  of  a  stranger,  penniless! 

That  was  queer,  too.  For  the  man  had  been 
dressed  in  garments  that  were  not  only  of  costly 
texture  but  that  had  been  extremely  well  tailored. 
Such  a  person  would  be  expected  to  carry  at  least 
a  card-case.  Yet  the  man's  pockets  had  been 
empty.  At  any  other  time  Deems  would  have 
scented  a  story  for  the  Record.  But  the  mere 
death  of  an  unidentified  man  was  not,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  violence,  worth  a  line  in  to-morrow 
morning's  Record.  In  these  days  of  titanic  con- 
flict it  took  something  quite  unusual  to  win  space, 
even  on  an  inside  page  of  the  newspapers. 

Ordinarily,  Deems,  blessed  with  a  clear  con- 
science and  a  good  digestion,  fell  asleep  as  soon 
as  his  head  touched  the  pillow.  He  had  been 
almost  ready  for  bed  when  the  knocking  at  his 
door  had  brought  him  into  the  hall;  the  unto- 
ward event  that  followed  the  knocking  kept  him 
awake  not  over  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  he 
had  finally  turned  in. 

It  had  been  two  o'clock  at  least  when  he  had 
gone  to  bed.  A  sleeping  man  can  keep  no  rec- 
ord of  the  lapse  of  time.  But  the  room  was  still 


16 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

dark  with  not  the  slightest  hint  of  light  seeping 
through  the  curtains  when  he  awakened.  He 
turned  over  restlessly.  On  those  rare  occasions 
when  overwork  had  given  him  a  touch  of  insom- 
nia he  had  awakened  like  this,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  to  remain  awake  until  it  was  time  to 
go  to  work.  But  he  knew  that  to-night  was  dif- 
ferent. He  was  not  the  least  bit  nervous;  fur- 
thermore, he  was  terribly  sleepy.  Why,  then, 
was  he  awake? 

And  then  he  knew  the  answer.  Some  one  was 
moving  in  the  next  room.  When,  some  hours 
before,  he  had  thought  some  one  essayed  burgla- 
rious entrance,  he  had  been  inwardly  amused. 
No  burglar  could  possibly  frighten  him.  But 
this  second  visitation  did  not  awaken  humour. 
Like  every  healthy  man,  he  loved  his  sleep.  No 
dressing-gown  hampered  his  movements  as  he 
slipped  out  of  bed.  Clad  only  in  pajamas  he 
stepped  softly  across  the  room. 

Between  his  chamber  and  living-room  hung  a 
portiere  similar  to  the  one  that  had  been  snatched 
from  its  fastenings  by  the  fall  of  the  victim  of 
apoplexy  earlier  in  the  night.  Gently  Deems 
drew  aside  this  second  drapery  and  peered  into 
the  living-room. 

Light  assailed  his  eyes;  involuntarily  he  put 
up  his  hands  to  shield  them. 


TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP  17 

"Keep  your  hands  up,"  said  a  voice. 

Slowly  Deems  opened  his  eyes;  heavy  with 
sleep  the  rays  of  the  electric  flashlight  blinded 
them.  Yet  in  a  second  his  vision  was  readjusted 
to  the  new  condition.  He  could  make  out  the 
shadowy  figure  behind  the  hand  that  held  the 
flashlight. 

"Have  you  heart  trouble?"  he  asked. 

"Heart  troubl- 

"Because,  you  know,  it  would  never  do,"  said 
Deems. 

"I  can't  imagine  what  you're  talking  about," 
said  the  voice. 

"Of  course."  Deems's  tones  were  sympa- 
thetic. "To  have  a  question  like  that  tossed  at 
one  by  a  perfect  stranger!  Now  if  we  knew 
each  other  and  were  terribly  well  acquainted, 
you'd  know  of  course  that  I'm  given  to  rambling 
verbally.  But  then  we  hardly  know  each  other 
at  all,  do  we?  Of  course,  you  know  me  by  sight, 
and  that  helps.  But  my  name  is  Deems,  Robert 
Deems.  My  men  friends  call  me  Deemsie,  but 
mother  always  called  me  Robbie.  Funny  thing 
about  mothers,  isn't  it?  They  always  wish  such 
dreadful  pet  names  on  their  boy-babies.  I  hope," 
and  his  voice  was  severe,  "that  none  of  your  sons 
are  called  Willie  or  Frankie." 

"None  of  my " 


18  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  find  out,"  said 
Deems.  "You  see,  if  you  had  a  lot  of  children, 
I'd  take  this  visit  as  a  sort  of  maternal  affair. 
I'd  assume  that  you  knew  there  were  buttons 
missing  from  my  shirts  and  that  my  socks — I 
can't  very  well  enter  the  room  because  I'm  not 
dressed  as  I  should  be,  but  in  that  desk  there  are 
a  lot  of  socks." 

There  was  the  least  trace  of  amusement  in  the 
voice  of  the  girl.  "Socks  in  a  writing-desk?" 

"Yes,  indeed!  And  collar-buttons  in  the  ink- 
well. Ink-wells  never  have  ink  in  them,  so  why 
not " 

"Keep  your  hands  up,"  interrupted  the  girl. 

"They  are  up,"  said  Deems  aggrievedly. 
"And  if  you  knew  how  numb  it  made  them  to 
hold  them  up — but  you're  standing!  Please  sit 
down." 

He  was  staring  as  hard  as  he  could  at  the  shad- 
owy figure.  Little  by  little  her  outline  became 
visible;  she  was  slim;  tall,  but  not  too  tall,  and 
rounded.  That  much  he  could  be  sure  of,  and 
her  voice  told  him  that  she  was  young.  But  he 
could  not  make  out  her  features,  nor  the  colour 
of  her  hair. 

"Thank  you."  Mirth  was  again  in  her  tones. 
"But  I  prefer  to  stand." 

"I  won't  insist,  Miss — No?     Ordinarily,  when 


TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP  19 

the  man  says  'Miss'  and  pauses  suggestively,  the 
lady  helps  him  by  supplying  her  name." 

"This  is  not  quite  an  ordinary  occasion,"  she 
told  him. 

"You  relieve  me.  I  didn't  know  but  that 
burglary  was  your  profession.  Merely  an  avo- 
cation?" 

The  girl  had  moved  as  he  spoke.  She  was 
standing  now  by  the  huddled  draperies  that  had 
been  torn  down  by  Deems's  earlier  visitor. 

"Don't  trip  over  that  curtain,"  he  advised  her. 
"It  proves  how  much  I  need  a  maternal  visitor. 
Think  of  a  man  so  lost  to  the  sense  of  neatness 
that  he  leaves  a  curtain  on  the  floor." 

The  girl  moved  again.  She  stopped.  For  a 
moment  the  flashlight  left  the  face  of  Deems. 
It  explored  the  floor  at  her  feet.  Then  the  light 
was  switched  off.  And  just  as  it  went  out 
Deems  got  the  impression  that  the  slim  figure 
was  bending  over. 

"Don't  move;  I'll  fire,"  she  warned  him.  Her 
voice  seemed  to  come  from  the  floor  itself.  And 
then  the  flash  gleamed  again  and  he  could  make 
out  behind  it  her  figure  standing  now  close  to  the 
outside  door.  He  had  the  odd  impression  that 
she  was  inwardly  shaking  with  excitement, 
though  her  voice  was  as  calm  and  crisp  as  it  had 
been  from  the  beginning. 


20  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"You're  not  going?" 

"Stay  right  where  you  are,  Mr.  Deems,"  she 
ordered. 

The  black  blot  in  her  right  hand  moved  for- 
ward a  trifle  until  it  was  clearly  defined  in  the 
rays  of  the  flashlight  that  her  left  hand  held.  It 
was  a  small  but,  Deems  imagined,  a  highly  effi- 
cient pistol.  And  it  was  levelled  unwaveringly 
at  himself. 

"Mr.  Deems,  for  your  own  good  I  would  ad- 
vise you  to  forget  that  I  have  been  here  to-night," 
she  said. 

"For  my  peace  of  mind  I  wish  that  I  might," 
he  answered.  "But  truly,  Miss — No?  Very 
well.  Oh,  I  say- 
Fatuous  ass  that  he  was!  For  the  outside 
door  had  opened  and  she  was  gone!  There  was 
no  use  in  trying  to  follow.  In  the  first  place,  he 
was  clad  only  in  pajamas ;  and  in  the  second  place 
— but  there  wasn't  any  second  place.  He  simply 
wasn't  dressed,  and  that's  all  there  was  to  it.  A 
man  in  pajamas  can  not  chase  a  lady  down  a  New 
York  street  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  It  isn't 
done. 

He  advanced  into  the  room  she  had  left  and 
switched  on  the  light.  Well,  she  might  be  an 
amateur  burglar,  but  she  was  a  thoroughly  effi- 
cient one.  Not  only  had  she  worked  quietly — 


TWICE-MURDERED  SLEEP  21 

she  must  have  been  quiet  for  some  time,  she  had 
accomplished  so  much  before  he  awakened — but 
hastily.  For  she  had  ransacked  his  desk,  and  the 
drawers  in  his  table  were  opened  and  their  con- 
tents jumbled  in  a  fashion  that  proved  she  had 
gone  through  them. 

And  yet,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  she  had  taken 
with  her  none  of  his  possessions.  A  ring  that 
had  belonged  to  his  mother,  of  more  than  senti- 
mental value  too,  was  left  behind.  Also  yester- 
day had  been  pay-day  and  something  under 
ninety  dollars  had  been  in  his  desk.  It  was  still 
there. 

What,  then,  had  caused  this  visit?  She  had 
been  too  calm,  too  much  mistress  of  herself  to 
have  been  deterred  from  theft  by  his  presence. 
He  entertained  the  idea  that  she  had  left  his 
apartment  at  the  very  moment  that  the  object  of 
her  visit  had  been  obtained.  He  couldn't  tell 
where  that  idea  came  from,  but  it  was  firmly 
fixed  in  his  mind. 

But  why  on  earth  should  a  girl  feloniously  en- 
ter his  apartment  and  then  depart  without  tak- 
ing what  few  portable  effects  he  had?  She  had 
not  been  afraid  of  him ;  his  entrance  upon  her  ac- 
tivities had  hardly  disconcerted  her.  Why,  then, 
had  she  come? 

The  question  was  unanswerable.  That  she  had 


2£  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

made  a  mistake  would  have  been  his  belief,  but 
for  the  queer  impression  he  had  received  when 
she  had  turned  off  her  flashlight  for  a  moment 
— the  impression  of  jubilant  excitement  emanat- 
ing from  her. 

If  only  he  had  been  dressed!  Still,  what 
could  he  have  done  ?  He  could  not  have  attacked 
her.  Not  her  pistol,  but  the  fact  that  he  was 
Bob  Deems,  would  have  prevented  violence. 
For,  had  she  been  unarmed,  he  would  have  made 
no  physical  effort  to  detain  her;  indeed,  would 
have  felt  almost  in  duty  bound  to  offer  a  woman 
reduced  to  such  stress  that  she  planned  crime 
what  money  he  had. 

But  this  girl  had  not  been  reduced  to  any  such 
stress.  If  her  voice  was  not  sufficient  proof  of 
her  breeding,  the  fact  that  she  had  left  money 
untouched  was  proof  that  she  was  not  driven  to 
her  act  by  poverty. 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  going  over  the 
situation,  trying  to  figure  out  what  else  he  could 
have  done.  To  have  stood  there  supinely  and 
let  the  girl  get  away  without  clue  to  her  purpose 
or  identity  seemed,  on  thinking  it  over,  to  have 
been  the  act  of  an  utter  idiot.  And  yet,  what 
the  deuce  could  he  have  done? 

He  went  to  sleep  with  this  question  also  unan- 
swered. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

TWO  HUNDBED  A  WEEK  FOR — WHAT? 

DEAD  men  and  pretty  girls!  They  had  haunted 
Deems  throughout  the  night,  and  now,  as  he  ate 
his  breakfast,  they  were  still  with  him.  But 
why  pretty? — he  asked  himself.  The  man  who 
had  been  taken  away  in  the  police  ambulance  was 
indubitably  dead.  But  how  did  he  know  that 
the  girl  was  pretty? 

"That,  Deemsie,  old  scout,  is  my  own  little 
secret,"  he  said  aloud.  "How  do  you  know  it's 
going  to  rain  when  the  sun  is  shining  and  there 
isn't  a  cloud  in  the  sky  ?  How  do  you  know  that 
the  first  of  the  month  will  bring  a  flock  of  bills? 
Habit,  instinct,  sheer  intellect.  Beauty,  Deem- 
sie, is  a  fact,  not  a  theory  or  a  supposition.  Why 
do  facts  exist?  So  that  we'll  recognise  them. 
You  don't  have  to  see  the  drops  to  know  it's  rain- 
ing; you  can  feel  them.  Just  the  same  with 
beauty.  A  blind  man  can  tell  an  orange  from 
an  unpicked  lemon.  It's  reason,  old  top." 

Yes,  she  was  pretty;  and  a  lady;  and  with  a 
sense  of  humour.  Deems  was  not  exactly  a  ro- 

23 


24  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

manticist,  but  he  had  his  share  of  red  blood,  and 
the  man  who  would  not  speculate  on  the  identity 
and  purpose  of  a  pretty,  charming  girl  who  had 
visited  his  apartment  at  dead  of  night,  must  have 
milk  in  his  veins.  Breakfast  had  never  been 
quite  so  satisfactory  as  it  was  this  morning.  Puz- 
zlement was  sauce  to  his  appetite.  He  regretted 
that  a  man  could  -eat  but  one  breakfast  at  a  time. 
He  was  looking  longingly  at  his  empty  coffee- 
pot when  his  door-bell  rang.  It  was  undoubt- 
edly Henry,  the  coloured  janitor,  come  to  clear 
away  the  remains  of  the  breakfast  that  Delia,  his 
wife,  had  prepared. 

But  it  was  not  Henry,  for  Henry  would  have 
used  his  pass-key  to  turn  the  feeble  lock  on  the 
door.  Instead,  the  door-knob  shook  in  response 
to  Deems's  call  to  enter.  Beneath  his  breath 
Deems  swore.  Henry  was  furniture,  and  furni- 
ture could  not  be  an  interruption  to  a  train  of 
thought.  He  was  coldly  civil  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

His  visitor  beamed.  A  man  of  medium 
height,  rather  stockily  built,  a  trifle  past  middle 
age,  quietly  dressed,  he  might  have  been  a  book- 
agent  or  a  life-insurance  solicitor,  had  it  not  been 
for  his  eyes.  Even  in  the  murk  of  the  ill-lighted 
hallway  the  man's  eyes  gleamed.  They  were 
restless,  rolling  eyes,  bright  with  an  uncanny 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?       25 

fire,  and  Deems  felt  that  they  explored  his  in- 
nermost soul.  Instinctively,  despite  the  other's 
smile,  Deems  disliked  and  distrusted  him. 

"Mr.  Robert  Deems?"  asked  the  man. 

Deems  nodded  assent.  Without  quite  know- 
ing how  it  happened,  he  found  himself  shaking 
the  hand  of  the  affable  stranger  and  showing 
him  a  seat  in  his  living-room.  The  man  exuded 
cordiality,  and  somehow  Deems  felt  ashamed  of 
himself  because  he  could  not  respond. 

"My  name  is  Wilder,  Thomas  Wilder." 

Deems  murmured  a  polite  assent. 

"I  am  one  of  a  group  of  men  interested  in  the 
International  Press  Service  Bureau,"  said 
Wilder.  "You  have  not  heard  of  us,  Mr. 
Deems,  for  the  reason  that  we  have  not  as  yet 
entered  actively  upon  the  work  of  supplying  the 
press  of  the  world  with  our  features.  But  we 
hope  to  begin  very  soon.  May  I  ask  if  you  are 
under  contract  to  the  Record?" 

Deems  shook  his  head. 

"Then  I  may  assume  that  you  would  consider 
an  offer  from  us?"  asked  the  visitor. 

Deems  eyed  the  man.  Now  that  his  hat  was 
removed,  Wilder  looked  older  than  he  had 
seemed  in  the  gloomy  hallway.  Also  Deems 
felt  that  cordiality,  beaming  cordiality,  was  not 
characteristic  of  the  man.  He  sensed  a  restless- 


26  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

ness,  a  nervousness  in  Wilder's  manner;  not  be- 
cause of  the  man's  ever-moving  eyes ;  but  because 
of  an  intangible  something  else,  the  indefinable 
thing  that  we  call  personality. 

"What  is  the  nature  of  your  offer?"  asked 
Deems. 

Wilder's  smile  grew  wider ;  he  nodded  approv- 
ingly. "That  is  the  sort  of  question  I  hoped  for, 
Mr.  Deems.  The  man  who  is  ready  to  consider 
any  offer,  who  leaps  blindly  into  an  affair,  has 
not  the  requisite  balance  for  the  position  which 
I  come  to  offer  you." 

He  hitched  his  chair  a  bit  nearer  to  Deems, 
and  his  rolling  eyes  grew  steady.  "This  is  a 
time  of  turmoil,  Mr.  Deems.  It  is  a  time  when 
the  newspaper  profession  is  facing  great  changes. 
For  a  great  many  years  the  press  of  this  coun- 
try, aside  from  its  little-read  editorial  pages,  has 
been  merely  a  daily  record  of  yesterday's  hap- 
penings. What  my  organisation  aims  at  is  the 
interpretative  recording  of  the  history  that  is  be- 
ing made  to-day;  its  meaning,  not  only  with  re- 
gard to  the  day  before  yesterday,  but  to  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  Quasi-editorial  correspond- 
ence, so  to  speak;  correspondence  that  will  have 
as  definite  an  effect  in  informing  and  molding, 
or,  rather,  I  should  say,  keeping  pace  with,  public 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?       27 

opinion  as  the  utterances  of  a  king  or  a  presi- 
dent." 

Deems  grinned.  "The  beauty  in  aiming  high 
is  that  your  shot  travels  farther,"  he  said. 

Wilder  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "Even  to  a 
man  like  you  it  seems  ambitious,  eh?  And  yet, 
now  is  the  time  when  the  press  of  the  world  has 
reached  the  highest  power  in  its  history.  And 
yet  who  shall  say  that  it  has  reached  its  limit?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Deems.  "But  why  select  me 
as  one  of  your  correspondents?" 

"You  are  too  modest,  Mr.  Deems.  We  know 
your  work  upon  the  Record;  we  know  your  per- 
sonal character;  brains  coupled  with  honesty. 
You  have  those  things  and  those  things  are  what 
we  need." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Deems. 

"You  would  consider  such  an  offer,  then?" 

"Make  it,"  replied  Deems. 

"That,  too,  is  the  sort  of  thing  we  like,"  said 
Wilder :  "to  meet  a  man  who  will  not  waste  time. 
What  we  offer  you  is  this:  two  hundred  a  week, 
all  expenses,  and  a  contract  for  one  year." 

Deems  whistled.     "And  I  go — where?" 

"To  Brazil  first;  on  the  Santa  Lucia,  sailing 
this  afternoon." 

Deems  whistled  again.  "That's  short  notice," 
he  said.  "It  wouldn't  be  playing  quite  fair  with 


28  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

the  Record.  I  should  have  to  give  them  a  week's 
notice  at  the  least." 

His  visitor  shook  his  head.  "That  is  unfortu- 
nate," he  said.  "It  is  quite  necessary  that  you 
leave  to-day.  I  should  have  stated,  too,  that  we 
are  keeping  the  formation  of  our  business  rather 
a  secret." 

Deems  looked  puzzled.  "But  I  should  think 
in  the  very  nature  of  things  that  you  would  want 
to  prepare  the  papers  for  this  new  service." 

His  visitor's  smile  grew  mysterious.  "You 
are  a  most  capable  writer,  Mr.  Deems,  and  a 
man  of  vision;  but  the  sordid  practicalities  of 
business  are  perhaps  not  familiar  to  you." 

"No,  frankly,  they  are  not,"  agreed  Deems. 

"Exactly.  But  we  plan  to  launch  this  busi- 
ness in  a  unique  manner.  There  is  behind  us 
unlimited  capital;  it  is  not  necessary  that  we  be- 
gin to  earn  an  income  immediately.  Before  the 
men  whom  we  send  out  write  us  a  single  line,  we 
wish  them  to  study  the  people,  the  customs,  the 
characteristics,  of  the  countries  to  which  they  are 
assigned.  You  will  be  in  Brazil  months  before 
we  shall  expect  to  hear  from  you." 

"And  I  leave  this  afternoon,  eh?"  said  Deems, 
slowly. 

"This  afternoon,"  echoed  Wilder. 

"It  might  be  arranged,"  murmured  Deems. 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?       29 

"Realising  the  opportunity  offered  me,  the  Rec- 
ord might  forgive  the  lack  of  notice." 

"There,  again,  is  something  to  be  explained," 
said  Wilder.  "It  would  be  quite  essential  that 
the  Record  know  nothing  of  your  plans.  You 
would  merely  resign." 

Deems  laughed  exasperatedly.  "This  is  ex- 
tremely mysterious,"  he  said.  "Not  to  tell  them 
anything.  You  spoke  of  sordid  practicalities  a 
moment  ago.  There  are  such  things  as  pass- 
ports, you  know.  We  are  at  war." 

Wilder  smiled.  "A  passport,  with  your 
photograph,  is  already  made  out.  You  will 
merely  have  to  sign  it." 

Deems  pursed  his  lips.  "You  were  quite  con- 
fident of  getting  me." 

Wilder  shrugged.  "Let  us  be  frank,  Mr. 
Deems.  You  are  a  most  excellent  newspaper- 
man, but  your  salary  is  just  eighty  dollars  a 
week.  Was  it  likely  that  you  would  refuse?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  admitted  Deems  thought- 
fully. "But — my  salary;  my  photograph?" 

Wilder's  beaming  smile  became  a  chuckle. 
"We  have  something  of  an  organisation,  Mr. 
Deems." 

"So  it  would  appear.  But — two  hundred  a 
week — we're  being  frank,  you  know — that,  to  me, 


30  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

with  expenses — aren't  you  a  bit  afraid  of  being 
— er — stung?" 

The  smile  left  Wilder' s  lips.  "We  investi- 
gate carefully,  Mr.  Deems.  We  will  not  be— 
stung.  I  am  to  take  it  that  you  accept  my  of- 
fer?" 

Deems  smiled  deprecatingly.  "Sordid  actu- 
alities seem  to  run  in  my  mind  this  morning.  It's 

a — rather  long  trip.     A  guarantee "     He 

paused. 

The  smile  returned  to  Wilder's  mouth.  It 
was  a  wide  mouth,  thin  and  harsh.  "You  are 
no  fool,  my  dear  Mr.  Deems.  There  is  no  guar- 
antee like  cash.  Two  hundred  a  week  for  half 
a  year  is  fifty-two  hundred  dollars.  Expenses, 
at  a  hundred  a  week,  are  twenty-six  hundred 
more.  I  have  brought  with  me  seventy-eight 
hundred  dollars  and  your  ticket." 

"Let  me  see  it,  please,"  requested  Deems. 

Wilder  opened  a  capacious  wallet.  He  drew 
forth  a  formidable-looking  document  that  Deems 
knew  was  a  passport,  something  that  looked  like 
a  steamer  ticket,  and — a  massive  roll  of  cur- 
rency. The  latter  he  handed  to  Deems. 

The  newspaperman  looked  at  it  with  interest. 
He  let  his  fingers  play  with  it  lingeringly. 

"Nice  little  stuff,"  he  crooned.  "Never 
dreamed  that  there  was  no  much  money  in  the 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?       31 

world — and  it  sort  of  sings  to  me,  as  though  it 
had  found  a  papa.  Poor  little  lonesome  long 
green.  Go  back  to  stepfather  1" 

And  he  tossed  the  money  upon  the  table-desk 
that  stood  between  Wilder's  chair  and  his  own. 
His  young  mouth  was  suddenly  as  harsh  as  the 
older  man's ;  his  grey  eyes  were  steely. 

"Listen,  Wilder,"  he  said,  coldly.  "It's  a 
wonder  of  a  game.  I  marvel  that  I  don't  fall 
for  it,  but — I'm  too  curious.  I  want  to  know 
why.  Put  your  money  in  your  wallet;  I  won't 
charge  you  a  cent  for  listening.  Tell  me." 

Wilder  stared  at  him.  His  face  expressed 
shocked  surprise. 

"Why,  Mr.  Deems!  You  speak  as  though 
you  doubted  my  good  faith!" 

"Do  I?  What  a  rotten  actor  I'd  make!  My 
voice  gives  me  away,  doesn't  it?  Doubt  your 
good  faith?  Why,  my  dear  Mr.  Wilder!  You 
stagger  me;  you  daze  me.  Doubt  you?  Never 
in  the  world!  I  can  tell  a  con  man  around  the 
corner.  But  why  me?  Why  little  Bobby 
Deems,  who  never  saved  a  penny  in  his  life,  and 
—it's  the  missing  paper;  that's  what  it  is! 
Please,  pul-lease  don't  disappoint  me !  Say  that 
it  is  the  missing  paper." 

Wilder  pocketed  his  money;  he  rose  from  his 
chair;  he  slowly  drew  on  his  gloves. 


82  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"A  game,  eh?  You  are  as  simple-minded  as 
that,  eh?  Not  simple-minded  enough  to  take 
our  money,  but  simple-minded  enough  to  think 
that  you  can  get  away  with  a  thing  like  this?  You 
are  a  fool,  Mr.  Deems." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Deems,  humbly.  "I'm  stu- 
pid. But — don't  hurry;  tell  me  about  it,  won't 
you?" 

Something  foreign  came  into  Wilder's  tones; 
not  a  trace  of  accent,  but  a  certain  stiffness  of 
speech,  as  though  he  chose  words  from  an  un- 
certain vocabulary.  He  no  longer  beamed;  his 
lips  had  relaxed  into  their  natural  grimness,  into 
a  menace  that  was  half  sneer. 

"There  are  several  ways  of  attending  to  affairs, 
Mr.  Deems.  One  way  is — to  pay.  That  some- 
times is  easier.  The  other  way — to  exact  pay- 
ment— that  is  not  so  difficult,  Mr.  Deems.  You 
choose  that  we  shall  attend  to  the  affair  in  the 
second  way.  I  bid  you  good  morning,  Mr. 
Deems." 

There  was  finality  in  his  tones.  Yet  he  paused 
at  the  door ;  Deems  sensed  then  a  weakness  in  the 
man's  character,  a  willingness  to  temporise.  His 
mouth  was  cruel,  not  firm. 

"You  are  young,  Mr.  Deems.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  you  do  not  pause  to  think.  We  would 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?   33 

not  be  too  harsh  with  you.  Perhaps  the  money 
is  not  enough,  eh?" 

"Enough?  Suppose  that  you  tell  me  exactly 
what  you  want  of  me?"  demanded  Deems. 

"Why  quibble,  why  waste  time?"  demanded 
Wilder.  "If  your  honour  is  sensitive — to  offer 
you  a  pleasant  vacation,  that  seemed  the  sim- 
plest way.  But  if  it  is  merely  a  question  of  how 
much — we  stand  ready  to  pay.  You  are  wiser, 
perhaps,  than  your  years  would  indicate.  But 
remember  that  wisdom  makes  compromises.  We 
are  more  or  less,  apparently,  in  your  power.  But 
that  renders  us  the  more  dangerous  to  you,  as 
you  must  apprehend,  Mr.  Deems.  A  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  no  questions  asked,  you  to  ab- 
sent yourself  from  America  for  at  least  six 
months.  What?" 

"And  in  return?"  questioned  Deems. 

"You  tell  us  exactly  how  much  Rogan  said 
to  you?" 

"Rogan?" 

Wilder  struck  the  table  with  his  gloved  hand. 
"Do  not  play  the  fool,  Mr.  Deems.  Rogan! 
The  man  who  died  here  last  night,  and  whose 
funeral  expenses  you  are  paying." 

Deems's  lips  pursed.  "And  suppose  that  I 
told  you  that  Rogan  told  me  nothing?" 

Wilder  smiled.     "Then  I  should  ask  you  to 


34 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

give  to  me  the  memorandum  that  he  might  have 
given  you." 

"And  if  I  told  you  that  he  gave  me  no  such 
memorandum  ?" 

"Then  I  should  remind  you  that  you  spoke, 
but  a  moment  ago,  of  a  paper,"  said  Wilder. 

"And  I  should  reply  that  I  was  joking,"  said 
Deems. 

"And  expect  me  to  believe  it?" 

"I  should  insist  that  you  believe  it,"  retorted 
Deems  quietly. 

"I  am  lacking  in  a  sense  of  humour.  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  catch  the  point  of  your  jest." 

"I  can  understand  that;  it  was  a  stupid  joke," 
admitted  Deems.  "Still,  I  was  joking." 

"Yet,  for  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  one  can 
well  become  serious." 

"Not  this  time.  The  man  Rogan  told  me 
nothing,  gave  me  nothing." 

"That  is  your  last  word?  We  shall  not  come 
again,  Mr.  Deems." 

"You  disappoint  me.  You  have  no  idea  how 
you  make  a  morning,  Mr.  Wilder,"  grinned 
Deems  impertinently. 

For  a  moment  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met. 
There  was  something  so  menacing  in  the  glance 
of  Wilder,  that  for  a  moment  Deems  thought 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?       35 

the  other  meditated  an  attack.  But  the  menace 
departed. 

"You  have  my  deep  sympathy,  Mr.  Deems. 
One  always  pities  a  fool." 

He  had  passed  through  the  door  before  Deems 
could  think  of  an  apt  retort. 

"Dead  men,  pretty  midnight  visitors,  and  now 
— a  hundred  thousand  dollars — and  I  think  the 
beggar  meant  it.  Rogan "  Deems's  utter- 
ance grew  incoherent.  Wilder  had  been  in 
deadly  earnest,  and  for  all  that  he  might  be  a 
bit  crazy,  his  visit  here  had  not  been  purposeless, 
had  not  been  the  weird  act  of  a  maniac.  The 
money  that  Deems  had  held  in  his  hand  had  been 
real. 

Deems's  eyes  narrowed  as  he  turned  into 
Third  Avenue  from  the  street  where  stood  his 
apartment,  to  take  the  elevated  to  Park  Row. 
The  visit  of  Wilder  was  connected  with  the  dead 
man,  whose  name,  apparently,  was  Rogan. 
Could  the  visit  of  the  girl  be  connected  with 
either  of  the  others?  If  so,  what  was  the  con- 
nection? That  she  should  have  known  Rogan, 
should  know  Wilder,  was  quite  absurd.  Wilder 
was  uncanny,  a  personage  hinting  of  hidden  evil ; 
and  Rogan,  poor,  commonplace-seeming  little 
man — he  could  not  have  moved  in  the  same  class 
that  held  the  girl  of  last  night. 


36  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

And  yet,  if  Wilder  knew  Rogan The 

girl  had  bent  over  near  the  fallen  portieres.  Had 
Rogan  dropped  something?  Had  she  come  in 
search  of  that  something?  He  stopped,  brows 
wrinkled  in  speculation  two-thirds  of  the  way 
across  the  street.  He  leaped  to  the  sidewalk  just 
in  time. 

Bound  north,  but  on  the  west  side  of  the  street, 
the  automobile  had  not  sounded  a  horn.  Racing 
at  upward  of  forty  miles  an  hour  it  was  now,  as 
from  the  vantage  of  the  sidewalk  Deems  stared 
angrily  after  it,  a  block  and  a  half  away.  On 
the  wrong  side  of  the  street,  and  breaking  the 
speed  law — the  blanked  utter  idiots!  And  yet, 
as  long  as  half-wits  were  permitted  to  run  mo- 
tors, sane  people  should  take  heed  to  their  street 
crossings.  He  forgot  his  narrow  escape  before 
he  had  mounted  the  steps  to  the  elevated.  Also, 
he  almost  forgot  Wilder  and  Rogan;  the  girl 
was  so  much  more  intriguing. 

In  the  "D"  pigeonhole  at  the  office  he  found 
an  envelope  addressed  to  him.  It  contained  his 
afternoon  and  evening  assignments.  The  first 
was  a  routine  matter  of  the  dullest;  the  latter 
was  rather  promising.  There  was  to  be  a  din- 
ner of  the  Anti-War  Society — and — Deems 
scrutinised  his  instructions  closely — he  was  not 
to  write  the  story  for  the  paper;  some  one  else 


TWO  HUNDRED  A  WEEK  FOR— WHAT?       37 

was  to  attend  to  that;  he  was  to  call  at  the  home 
of  Stephen  Gryce,  owner  of  the  Record,  and  per- 
sonally report  to  the  publisher  the  events  of  the 
dinner.  It  was  an  odd  assignment,  but — every- 
thing in  the  world  was  odd.  For  instance,  what 
could  be  odder  than  the  trio  of  happenings  of  the 
past  fourteen  hours  or  so? 

"Gentleman  to  see  you,  Mr.  Deems,"  said  an 
office  boy. 

"What's  his  name?"  questioned  Deems.  He 
was  angry  that  his  pleasant  speculations  about 
the  girl  were  once  again  broken  into. 

"Didn't  say." 

"Be  out  in  a  moment,"  said  Deems. 

He  walked  to  his  desk.  Clancy,  of  the  Ship 
News  Department,  gave  him  a  wave  of  the  hand 
as  he  walked  out  of  the  city  room.  Deems  nod- 
ded pleasantly;  he  liked  Clancy.  He  opened  his 
desk  and  took  out  pencil  and  copy  paper.  His 
afternoon  assignment  was  of  the  sort  that  would 
necessitate  notes.  Then  he  started  for  the  door. 
He  was  half-way  to  it  when  he  heard  a  roar  like 
the  blowing-out  of  a  tire.  But  motors  do  not 
run  on  the  twelfth  floor  of  the  Record  Building. 
He  was  the  first  to  reach  the  outer  office. 

Clancy  lay  upon  the  floor,  a  bullet-hole  mar- 
ring his  good-natured  features.  Beside  him  lay 


38  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

a  stranger,  also  dead.     And  the  office  boy  stared 
at  Deems;  he  spoke  hoarsely,  aff rightedly : 

"He  t 'ought  Clancy  was  youse,  sir;  I  heard 
him  call  him  TDeems.'  " 


CHAPTER  THREE 

CROSS-PURPOSES 

GRYCE  looked  at  his  cigar;  his  nostrils,  broad 
nostrils,  quivered  faintly  as  he  sniffed  the  fra- 
grance. Huge  of  feature,  yet  relieved  from 
grossness  by  the  intellectual  eyes  and  forehead, 
one  felt  that  here  was  a  man  whose  appetites  were 
ever  clamorous,  were  held  in  restraint  only  by  a 
strength  of  will.  The  trim  body,  one  knew,  was 
trim  not  wholly  through  nature  or  physical  dis- 
cipline; the  tailor  had  done  his  full  share. 

"The  greatest  man  the  world  has  ever  seen?" 
He  looked  at  his  guest.  His  eyes  grew  specu- 
lative. "Alexander,  Napoleon,  Darwin — that's 
too  hard  a  question.  Unless,  of  course,  you  per- 
mit me  to  call  man  Him  whom  millions  call  God." 

"Yet  He  lived  and  died  a  man,"  said  his  guest. 

"Then  there  is  no  room  for  argument.  Christ, 
of  course,  stands  supreme." 

"And  yet  to-day  we  worship  Mars,"  said  the 
other. 

Gryce  frowned.  "I  would  hardly  say  that. 
Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  Christ  is  warring 

30 


40  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

against  Mars,  and  that  we  of  the  Allied  nations 
fight  on  the  side  of  Christ?" 

His  guest  applied  a  match  to  his  cigar.  "Yet 
one  is  permitted  to  ask  oneself  whether  or  not 
Christ  would  have  combated  evil  with  evil." 

"But  are  we  of  the  Allied  nations  doing  that?" 
demanded  Gryce. 

His  guest  lifted  his  shoulders.  "I  yield  to 
no  one  in  my  love  for  France,"  he  said.  "And 

yet " 

Gryce  inclined  his  head.  "I  understand  the 
patriotism  of  the  Comte  de  Grecque;  the  whole 
world  understands  it.  You  and  I  are  simply 
discussing  theories " 

" — that  might  have  been  made  actualities," 
said  de  Grecque. 

Gryce  watched  a  smoke  ring  shatter  itself 
against  a  lamp.  "How?"  he  asked. 

"Suppose  that  Belgium  had  not  resisted;  sup- 
pose that  my  beloved  country  had  not  taken  up 
arms  in  defence  of  herself.  Suppose  that  our 
great  ally,  England,  had  not  entered  the  war?" 

"Why,  then  the  German  heel  would  have  been 
ground  into  the  face  of  civilisation,"  asserted 
Gryce. 

De  Grecque  shrugged.  "You  and  I  are  but 
human,  my  friend.  I  at  once  joined  the  army 
of  France ;  I  served  until  it  seemed  that  I  could 


CROSS-PURPOSES  41 

serve  France  better  in  the  field  of  diplomacy. 
My  actions  belie  my  words.  And  yet  that  does 
not  mean  that  I  believe  in  my  actions  rather  than 
in  my  words.  It  means  that  having  the  limited 
intellect  of  human  beings,  the  limited  imagina- 
tion, I  was  unable  to  see  any  other  course  than 
that  of  desperate  resistance  to  a  cruel  foe.  I 
am  still  resisting,  in  so  far  as  one  man  may,  the 
aggressions  of  that  cruel  foe.  But  at  times, 
when  I  think  upon  the  countless  dead  of  Europe, 
I  wonder  whether,  had  Christ  been  alive  in  hu- 
man flesh  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  he  would 
have  counselled  resistance  or  non-resistance. 
Mind,  to  withdraw  now — I  would  not  counsel 
that — but  to  see  another  great  nation  drawn  into 
the  vortex — I  wonder." 

His  rolling  eyes  ceased  their  movement  and 
rested  upon  the  wide  face  of  Gryce. 

"To-day  is  the  day  of  great  change,"  he  con- 
tinued. "The  world  is  anxious  to  change.  To 
emulate  Ceesar,  to  emulate  Christ!  That  is  the 
choice  you  make." 

"I  make?"  Gryce  met  the  look  of  the  French- 
man. 

"That  the  world  makes.  You  perhaps  are 
more  typical  of  the  world  than  any  man  I  know. 
You  are  not  sure;  you  see  an  armed,  threaten- 
ing foe,  killing  and  maiming  and  destroying  what 


42  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

lies  in  his  course.  Your  blood  is  red.  And  you 
are  armed  with  righteousness.  And  yet — you 
wonder.  Is  it  not  so,  my  friend?" 

"I  opposed  our  entrance  into  the  war,  but  now 

that  we  are  in  it "  Gryce's  eyes  clouded; 

incertitude  was  in  them. 

"Exactly!"  de  Grecque  cried.  "Because  a 
majority  adopt  a  certain  course,  one  changes 
one's  concepts  of  right  and  wrong.  You  thought 
it  wrong  for  the  United  States  to  enter  the  war. 
That  is  so?" 

Gryce  nodded  heavily. 

"And  yet  now  you  try  to  reconcile  your  for- 
mer beliefs  with  your  actions  of  to-day.  You 
are  supporting  the  war." 

"Would  you  have  me  treasonable?"  asked 
Gryce. 

The  Frenchman's  harsh  mouth  twisted  in  a 
smile.  "It  is  so  hard  for  us  to  bear  in  mind  that 
we  talk  abstractly.  I,  Comte  de  Grecque,  a 
pronounced  pacifist,  served  three  months  in  the 
trenches.  And  I  did  so  gladly,  proudly.  Trea- 
sonable? Not  so,  my  friend.  I  simply  ask  why 
it  is  that  when  one's  country  is  attacked,  one 
loses  sight  of  the  teachings  of  the  Great  Mas- 
ter." 

"There  are  passages  from  the  New  Testament 


CROSS-PURPOSES  43 

which  do  not  uphold  the  pacifists'  conception  of 
Christ,"  said  Gryce. 

"Yet  the  Christian  God  is  the  Prince  of 
Peace,"  smiled  de  Grecque. 

Gryce  threw  his  cigar  into  the  fireplace.  He 
rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  "I 
know,  I  know,"  he  said.  "And  I  understand 
that  we  are  both  anxious  for  our  cause  to  tri- 
umph. I  realise  that  we  speak  abstractly.  And 
yet,  if  there  is  truth  in  the  abstract,  why  is  it  not 
truth  in  the  concrete?" 

"It  is,"  said  de  Grecque.  "But  we  lack  the 
courage  to  face  it  or,  having  faced  it,  we  refuse 
to  recognise  it.  Public  opinion  is  a  mighty 
force.  But  you,  you  make  public  opinion.  You 
are  a  great  publisher;  millions  read  your  news- 
papers; if  you  were  to  throw  the  full  weight  of 
your  newspapers  against  the  sending  of  an  army 
to  France " 

"But  that — you,  who  have  fought  for  France, 
who  now  serve  over  here — do  you  counsel  that  I 
should  help  the  ends  of  Germany?" 

"Listen,  my  friend.  This  war  will  be  won  or 
lost  before  America's  might  can  be  felt.  For 
America  to  send  her  legions  abroad  means 
merely  that  America  must  suffer — it  does  not 
mean  that  France  will  be  the  gainer.  To  break 
relations  with  Germany,  to  admit  what  Germany 


44  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

by  her  deeds  has  insisted  upon,  that  a  state  of 
war  exists — that  is  America's  proud  part.  But 
it  is  enough.  To  whom  can  the  world  turn  for 
counsel,  for  mediation,  now  that  America  has 
entered  the  war?  But  if  America  should  be  in 
the  war  in  name  only  she  might  prove  in  the  end 
the  salvation  of  the  world.  Germany  would 
trust  her  as  a  fair  arbiter.  But  if  German  troops 
have  clashed  in  the  field  against  American 

troops Did  I  believe  your  country  able  to 

equip  and  transport  armies  to  France  in  time,  I 
should  not  speak  this  way.  But  the  world  knows 
that  you  will  be  too  late.  And  it  is  as  a  lover,  not 
of  France  alone,  but  of  the  world,  that  I  spoke. 
"I  need  not  say  to  you,  my  friend,  that  I  have 
put  into  speech  for  the  first  time  that  which  I 
have  believed  for  months.  The  world  must  be 
saved  not  only  from  the  dominion  of  Germany, 
but  from  the  dominion  of  forces  that  Germany's 
heinous  acts  have  set  loose.  The  spirit  of  hatred, 
of  revenge — it  must  not  be  freed.  And  you,  Mr. 
Gryce,  are  the  one  man  in  America  who  can  see 
to  it  that  this  spirit  is  held  in  leash.  It  is  daring 
to  play  the  role  of  the  lover  of  mankind;  more 
daring  than  the  role  of  the  hater  of  mankind. 
The  world  has  its  Napoleon,  its  Alexander,  its 
Caesar.  One  may  name  the  destroyers  until  the 
tongue  grows  weary  with  the  utterance.  But 


CROSS-PURPOSES  45 

there  is  but  one  great  Lover,  and  His  name  lives 
forever." 

"He  was  crucified,"  said  Gryce  softly. 

"He  was,"  said  de  Grecque. 

Gryce  ceased  his  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room.  He  stared  at  the  Frenchman. 

"You  do  not  speak  for  yourself  alone,  de 
Grecque." 

"I  speak  for  the  war-worn  world,"  replied  the 
other. 

"Yet  there  must  be  men  of  your  acquaintance 
who  agree  with  you?" 

"I  do  not  need  to  say  to  you  that  I  am  a  man 
of  the  world,"  said  de  Grecque.  "Men  of  the 
world  do  not  often  need  actual  speech  to  know 
the  feeling  of  others.  But  I  can  assure  you,  Mr. 
Gryce,  that  I  have  weighed  my  words  carefully ; 
that  I  know  whereof  I  speak  when  I  say  to  you 
that  the  best  thought  of  Europe  agrees  with  me. 
It  is  not  well  that  certain  things  be  said  too 
openly.  A  people  can  not  understand  the  ab- 
stract. They  would  read  treason  with  superpa- 
triotism.  But  you  yourself — you  are  not  alone 
in  your  opposition  to  America's  taking  an  active 
part  in  this  war?" 

Gryce  shook  his  head.  "I  believe  that  there 
are  millions  with  me,"  he  stated. 

"And  you  can  make  those  millions  articulate," 


46  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

said  de  Grecque.  "And  when  the  war  is  over 
and  America  learns  the  true  horrors  that  Europe 
has  suffered,  America  will  bestow  honour  upon 
him  who  had  vision  and  did  not  fear  to  use  his 
vision." 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  beamed  upon  the 
publisher.  Their  hands  met.  "I  am  with  you," 
said  Gryce.  "With  you  for  the  betterment  of 
mankind,  no  matter  where  it  leads  me." 

His  big  body  was  slumped  back  in  a  chair  and 
he  was  staring  at  the  logs  in  the  fireplace  whose 
flames  took  away  the  chill  of  the  April  night, 
when  his  daughter  entered  the  room.  He  looked 
up  and  smiled  an  invitation.  She  sat  down  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair  and  her  right  hand  slid  natu- 
rally around  his  neck;  her  fingers  caressed  his 
wide  cheek. 

For  a  moment  the  two  sat  in  silence.  Then 
the  girl  spoke: 

"I  am  beginning  to  wonder,  Daddy,  whether 
education  should  not  be  banned  by  law." 

"Heresy!"  he  cried.  "This  from  a  settlement 
worker !" 

"I've  been  to  the  dinner  of  the  Anti-War  So- 
ciety," she  told  him.  "Intellect,  Daddy;  intel- 
lect, educated  and  refined  down  to  the  point  al- 
most of  nothingness.  I  wonder  if  reason  has  ad- 
vanced the  world  one-tenth  as  far  as  instinct  and 


CROSS-PURPOSES  47 

emotion.  To  hear  them  talk — ugh,"  her  mouth 
was  pretty  in  its  moue;  "they're  traitors!  But 
such  plausible  traitors.  I  haven't  brains,  Daddy, 
and  I  couldn't  get  up  and  denounce  them.  For 
all  the  pacifists  have  a  thousand  specious  argu- 
ments; they  quote  dates  and  figures  and  conver- 
sations until  your  head  reels.  As  if  one  needed 
intellect  to  determine  between  right  and  wrong  1" 

Gryce's  body  stiffened.  "How  did  you  hap- 
pen to  be  there,  Lydia?" 

"Invited,"  she  answered.  "Because  your  pa-« 
pers  stood  for  peace,  they  seemed  to  think  that 
you  weren't  for  war,  now  that  it's  been  declared. 
Everybody  preferred  peace,  if  it  could  be  gained 
honourably.  But  you — you're  for  prosecuting 
the  war  to  the  utmost,  as  everybody  knows. 
They  were  insolent  in  daring  to  invite  me !  But  I 
went,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  I  know  what  sort 
of  people  pacifists  are  now.  An  idea  is  more  to 
them  than  the  life  of  a  baby.  Daddy,  I  hate 
them." 

"And  yet,  there  may  be  great  good  in  what 
they  say,"  said  Gryce. 

The  girl  slipped  from  the  arm  of  the  chair ;  she 
faced  her  father. 

"Good!  When  they  propose  that  we  shall 
permit  the  German  outrage  to  continue?  You 
aren't  serious,  Father?" 


48  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"And  if  I  were?" 

"I  won't  believe  it,"  she  told  him. 

Eyes  wide,  face  flushed;  she  stared  at  him. 
Her  lips  trembled,  but  the  speech  at  the  tip  of 
her  tongue  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  on  the 
door.  A  servant  announced  that  the  gentleman 
from  the  Record  had  arrived. 

"Show  him  in  here,"  said  Gryce.  He  refused 
to  meet  his  daughter's  eyes,  the  eyes  that  for  the 
first  time  in  his  memory  were  accusatory.  As 
for  Lydia,  she  made  no  further  attempt  at  speech. 

While  yet  she  was  several  feet  from  the  door, 
the  servant  opened  it  again,  announcing,  "Mr. 
Deems." 

The  newspaper  man  stepped  into  the  room; 
at  sight  of  the  girl  he  paused,  looking  uncertainly 
from  her  to  her  father.  Then,  as  she  so  evi- 
dently waited  for  him  to  pass,  he  advanced  into 
the  room.  But  Lydia  Gryce  started  forward  at 
the  same  time.  One  of  those  amusing  collisions, 
that  it  always  seems  could  have  been  avoided  by 
the  ordinary  use  of  eyesight,  occurred.  The 
girl  stepped  back. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  she  said. 

She  waited  for  Deems  to  step  aside.  Instead, 
he  stared  at  her.  Beneath  his  gaze  her  eyes  low- 
ered; her  face,  that  had  been  crimson  as  she 
walked  away  from  her  father,  grew  pale. 


CROSS-PURPOSES  49 

"Have  you  heart  trouble?"  asked  Deems. 

Into  her  face  the  colour  swept  again.  Gryce 
turned  in  his  chair. 

"That  you,  Mr.  Deems?  Why,  have  you 
young  people  met  before?" 

Lydia  had  regained  her  self-possession  now. 
"I  think  not,"  she  said. 

The  publisher  stared  at  the  reporter.  "Did 
I  hear  you  ask  her  if  she  had  heart  trouble?" 

Deems  flushed.  "Why — er — I  said  that  I  al- 
ways start  trouble,"  he  answered.  "I  clumsily 
bumped  into  your  daughter  and " 

"Oh!"  grunted  Gryce.  "Lydia,  this  is  Mr. 
Deems,  one  of  my  young  men  on  the  Record. 
Good  night,  Daughter." 

"Good  night,  Father."  She  bowed  to  Deems 
and  left  the  room.  He  stared  after  her.  Well, 
instinct  had  not  lied;  the  girl  who  had  come  to 
his  apartment  last  night  was  pretty.  Pretty? 
What  a  weak,  piffling  word  "pretty"  was! 
Beautiful,  for  that  matter,  was  all  too  inexpres- 
sive. For  Lydia  Gryce  was  one  of  the  loveliest 
girls  in  New  York.  And  it  was  Lydia  Gryce's 
voice  that  he  had  heard  last  night! 

Gryce  was  unaware  of  the  young  man's  amaze- 
ment, for  Lydia  had  said,  "Good  night,  Father" 
It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  not 
called  him  "daddy." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

A   SCRAP   OF   PAPER 

THE  man-servant  accosted  Deems  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 

"Miss  Gryce  wishes  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said. 
He  ushered  the  newspaper  man  into  the  recep- 
tion-room. 

The  library  had  been  rather  dimly  lighted,  but 
this  room  was  brilliant.  Her  hat  removed,  the 
girl  stood  beneath  a  chandelier.  Deems  could 
appreciate  her  beauty  to  its  full  extent.  Yet, 
even  as  he  waited  for  her  to  speak,  he  realised 
that  Lydia  Gryce  was  one  of  those  rare  beings 
whose  charm  could  not  be  gathered  at  a  glance. 
Beauty  depends  so  much  upon  expression;  and 
Lydia  Gryce  was  not  rigid  of  feature.  Now, 
her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  the  least  bit  apprehen- 
sive, she  made  Deems  think  of  some  shy  sprite  of 
the  forest  poised  for  flight.  Yet  there  was  noth- 
ing helpless  about  her  expression;  rather,  it 
savoured  of  defiance.  He  knew  that  those  grey 
eyes,  slightly  clouded  now,  would  be  just  as 
lovely  when  the  spirit  of  mockery  peeped  from 

50 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  51 

them.  The  mouth  would  be  even  more  delicious 
when  it  smiled.  And  he  was  quite  certain  that, 
no  matter  how  she  tried,  the  low  broad  brow 
could  never  wrinkle.  Her  dark  hair,  so  brown 
as  to  be  almost  black,  caught  the  gleam  of  the 
electric  lights.  Her  flush  warned  him  that  he 
was  staring.  He  lowered  his  eyes  as  she  spoke: 

"Mr.  Deems,  why  did  you  follow  me  here?" 
She  came  directly  to  the  point. 

"Follow  you?  I  came  here  to  see  your  fa- 
ther, Miss  Gryce." 

"You  were  at  the  meeting  of  the  Anti-War 
Society.  I  saw  you  taking  notes.  Yet  you 
come  to  the  house  instead  of  going  to  the  Record 
office,"  she  accused. 

"There  was  another  man  covering  the  story. 
I  made  notes  to  report  to  your  father,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Notes  for  my  father?  But  he  can  read  his 
own  paper." 

Deems  shrugged.  "That  will  be  to-morrow 
morning." 

"But  why — you  are  honest,  Mr.  Deems?" 

"I  never  lie  except  when  it  is  unavoidable, 
Miss  Gryce." 

"As  when  my  father  asked  what  you  had  said 
to  me?" 

He  bowed.     "Exactly." 


52  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

The  apprehension  left  her  eyes.  They  met 
his  squarely.  "What  did  my  father  say  to  you?" 

"Nothing,  Miss  Gryce.  I  merely  told  him 
briefly  the  events  of  the  evening." 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  were  weighing  carefully  her  next 
speech.  "You  are  acquainted  with  the  Comte 
de  Grecque,  Mr.  Deems?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  have  heard  the  name. 
Isn't  he  with  some  mission  over  here?" 

She  nodded.  "Did  you  have  any  visitors  to- 
day, Mr.  Deems?" 

"One,  at  my  rooms.  Another  called  at  the 
office  and  asked  for  me.  He  killed  a  friend  of 
mine  and  himself." 

The  girl  shuddered  faintly.  "You  knew 
neither  of  the  men?" 

"Neither  of  them." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  your  first 
visitor  wanted?" 

"He  seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  I  was  in  pos- 
session of  information  of  value  to  him.  At  any 
rate,  he  offered  me  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"What  was  the  information  that  he  wanted?" 
she  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  A  man  died  in  my  rooms  last 
night.  Because  I  was  sorry  for  the  chap  and 
offered  to  pay  his  funeral  expenses,  the  man 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 


— Wilder,  he  called  himself — seemed  to  think  that 
I  had  been  the  dead  man's  confidant." 

"And  you  were  not?" 

"Seven  thousand  dollars  is  a  lot  of  money  to 
me,  Miss  Gryce.  Wilder  offered  me  more  than 
that." 

"Yet  you  might  want  more,"  she  suggested. 

He  lifted  his  shoulders.  "Who  may  tell  the 
wants  of  a  man?" 

"Did  you  tell  the  man  Wilder  that  I  had  been 
at  your  rooms  last  night?" 

"Had  I  known  this  morning  that  it  was  you 
who  had  come  to  my  apartment  I  should,  of 
course,  Miss  Gryce,  have  told  him.  I  never  fail 
to  babble  of  all  my  affairs  to  the  first  questioner." 

He  felt  childish,  without  dignity,  before  he 
had  finished  the  querulous  speech.  It  did  not 
need  the  slight  trace  of  contempt  in  her  eyes  to 
make  him  ashamed  of  himself. 

"And  when  you  refused  to  give  Wilder  infor^ 
mation—  -?" 

"An  automobile  almost  got  me,  and  a  friend 
of  mine  is  dead,"  he  answered. 

"And  the  man  Wilder — he  wished  promises  of 
secrecy?" 

"It  amounted  to  that.  I  was  to  leave  the 
country." 

She    looked    at    him    coolly,    impersonally. 


54  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Suppose,  Mr.  Deems,  that  we  stop  fencing? 
To  attempt  cross-examining  a  newspaper  man  is 
futile.  Wilder  offered  you  more  than  seven 
thousand  dollars.  You  admit  that  you  want  a 
great  deal  more  than  that.  A  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars !  I  do  not  wish  to  bargain  with  you. 
Perhaps  you  might  be  bought  much  more 
cheaply.  That  does  not  matter.  You  will  take 
a  hundred  thousand  from  me?" 

Deems  smiled.  "Let's  stop  fencing,  Miss 
Gryce.  Why  not  tell  me  exactly  what  you  wish 
of  me?" 

"The  paper  that  Rogan  gave  you;  the  same 
paper  that  de  Grecque  wanted  from  you — Wil- 
der, if  you  think  it  safer  to  call  him  that." 

"Safer?" 

She  made  an  impatient  movement  with  her 
hands. 

"One  hundred  thousand  dollars,  Mr.  Deems, 
and  immunity." 

"Immunity?"  He  looked  at  her  blankly. 
"Miss  Gryce,  I've  been  moving  in  the  dark  ever 
since  last  night  when  I  awoke  to  find  you  moving 
in  the  dark.  A  man  dies  in  my  rooms;  a  girl 
visits  my  rooms ;  a  stranger,  whom  you  tell  me  is 
the  Comte  de  Grecque,  offers  me  a  preposterous 
position;  you  offer  me  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars. My  death  is  attempted.  A  friend  of 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  55 

mine  dies  in  my  stead.  Miss  Gryce,  don't  you 
think  you  ought  to  offer  some  explanation?" 

From  her  purse  she  drew  a  tiny  piece  of  paper. 
"It  is  silly  giving  you  information  that  you  al- 
ready possess,  but  the  oblique  mind  prefers  in- 
directness." She  unfolded  the  paper.  "You 
were  quite  amusing  last  night,  Mr.  Deems;  I 
think  the  stage  lost  something  when  you  entered 
newspaper  work.  Your  nonchalance,  your  per- 
fect willingness  to  let  me  go — but  that  is  the  at- 
tribute of  the  good  bargainer.  To  await  offers 
rather  than  to  seek  them ;  that  is  good  business." 

On  the  table  she  tossed  the  bit  of  paper  that 
she  had  been  unfolding.  Deems  could  see  that 
it  was  blank. 

"Now,  Mr.  Deems,  give  me  the  real  paper 
that  Rogan  gave  to  you  before  he  died." 

He  shook  his  head.  "If  I  had  such  a  paper 
it  would  be  yours  at  once,  Miss  Gryce." 

"The  hundred  thousand  will  be  cash,  Mr. 
Deems." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  I  know  of  no  such  paper," 
he  protested. 

"I  do  not  think  it  would  be  quite  fair  of  me 
to  threaten  you  with  the  same  sort  of  thing  that 
de  Grecque  has  attempted,"  she  said.  "I  would 
rather  appeal  to  your  purse.  But  I  assure  you, 
Mr.  Deems,  that  we  who  are  fighting  in  the  dark 


56  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

to  protect  our  country,  may,  if  forced  to  it,  use  a 
weapon  stronger  than  bribes." 

Deems's  eyes  widened.  "If  it  is  a  matter  in- 
volving America,  why  not  appeal  to  my  loyalty, 
Miss  Gryce?" 

She  laughed.  He  had  never  expected  to  hear 
such  bitterness  of  tone  from  lips,  that  he  knew 
could  be  so  merry. 

"Your  loyalty?  One  appeals  to  what  exists, 
Mr.  Deems.  I  suppose  that  because  my  father 
is  deluded,  you  think  he  is  wicked ;  that  you,  and 
those  with  you,  can  use  him ;  that  you  can  appeal 
to  him  to  call  me  off !  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Deems, 
that  you  are  wrong  in  your  estimate  of  my  fa- 
ther. It  takes  him  long  to  make  up  his  mind; 
he  may  make  minor  errors  for  a  while.  But  in 
the  end — You  can  afford  to  temporise  with  de 
Grecque;  you  can  make  sport  of  me.  But  my 
father  is  a  powerful  man,  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful in  this  country,  and  when  in  the  end,  he  finds 
that  he  has  been  deceived— 

She  paused,  breathless.  Deems  stared  at  her. 
"Will  you  please  listen  to  me,  Miss  Gryce!  I 
suppose  that  I  should  resent  being  prejudged. 
But  that  doesn't  matter.  You  talk  of  loyalty, 
of  disloyalty.  You  speak  of  de  Grecque — whom 
you  say  is  my  visitor,  Wilder; — you  talk  of  de- 
luding your  father,  of  an  appeal  to  him  to  call 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  57 

you  off.     Miss  Gryce,  if  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honour  that  I  am  absolutely  bewildered,  that  I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  all  this  means- 
He  paused,  eying  her  questioningly. 

"Yet  you  held  out  for  a  bigger  price  from  de 
Grecque,"  she  accused. 

He  shrugged  impatiently.  "It  all  sounded  so 
absurd,  Miss  Gryce,  that  I  let  you  interpret  my 
action  to  suit  yourself.  But  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour  that  I  have  no  knowledge  of  the  paper 
that  you  seem  to  think  I  possess;  that  I  know 
nothing  of  Wilder  or  de  Grecque;  that  the  man 
Rogan — 

"You  will  even  tell  me  that  you  had  never  seen 
Rogan  before?"  she  demanded,  incredulously. 

"I  even  tell  you  that,"  he  answered.  Then, 
as  suspicion  blazed  in  her  eyes  again,  he  went  on 
hurriedly:  "I  give  you  my  word,  Miss  Gryce. 
More  than  that,  if  I  can  help  you— 

"You?  Help  me?  You  who  hold  out  for  a 
bribe  that— 

"Have  I  accepted  your  offer?"  he  reminded 
her.  "After  all,  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  is 
an  enormous  bribe,  Miss  Gryce." 

"Perhaps  you  think  I  could  not  pay  it?" 

"In  which  case  I  should  probably  ask  to  see 
your  money,"  he  said. 

Her  expression  grew  thoughtful.     "And  yet, 


58  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

last  night,  your  attitude  toward  me — why  didn't 
you  detain  me?  A  burglar,  in  the  night — and 
you  were  not  afraid  of  my  pistol " 

He  grinned — the  likable  grin  that  made  him 
friends.  "Miss  Gryce,  did  you  not  realise  that 
I'd  turned  in  for  the  night?  Could  I  pursue  a 
lady  down  the  street  in  pajamas?" 

She  tried  to  hold  her  expression  of  suspicion; 
she  even  fought  for  indignation;  but  she  smiled. 

"That  was  a  difficulty,"  she  admitted. 

He  pursued  his  advantage.  "Why  can't  you 
trust  me?  Tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  thought 
to  find  in  my  rooms.  What  it  meant." 

"And  you  maintain  that  Rogan  was  unknown 
to  you?  His  funeral  expenses " 

"After  all,  he  was  a  human  being,  and  he'd 
seemed  to  appeal  to  me.  To  bury  him — is  that 
too  unusual?" 

"It  isn't  common,"  she  said.  Her  gaze  soft- 
ened. "If  I  could  believe  you " 

"Try  me,"  he  begged. 

Something  of  eagerness  in  his  tone  made  her 
stiffen.  It  was  as  though  she  sensed  his  tre- 
mendous personal  interest  in  her  and  resented  it. 

"I  said  that  I  did  not  care  to  threaten 
you,  Mr.  Deems.  Let  de  Grecque  and  those 
allied  with  him  do  that.  It  seems  to  me — 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  59 

if  you  haven't  already  made  terms  with  de 
Grecque " 

"My  friend  Clancy  is  dead,"  he  reminded  her. 
"You  don't  truly  think  me  the  sort  to  make 
terms  with  men  who  have  killed  my  friend?" 

"No-o,"  she  admitted.  "Still— have  the  po- 
lice found  out  who  did  it?" 

"The  murderer  had  nothing  on  him  by  which 
he  might  be  identified.  There'd  been  nothing 
learned  of  him  when  I  visited  police  headquarters 
to-night,  Miss  Gryce.  Please  trust  me.  My 
friend  dies  from  a  bullet  meant  for  me.  His 
murderer — my  God,  when  a  man  deliberately 
commits  suicide  after  murder;  when  he  commits 
murder  knowing  that  his  own  death  inevitably 
must  follow — he  is  either  a  maniac,  or " 

"Yes?  'Or?'  Involved  in  terrible  matters, 
Mr.  Deems  ?  Exactly.  Yet  you  ask  me  to  trust 
you  on  your  unsupported  word,  when  we  know 
that  Rogan  bore  a  paper  into  your  apartment, 
and  that  you  carefully  placed  a  substitute  paper 
on  the  floor  to  deceive  me." 

"It  hasn't  occurred  to  you  that  I  knew  noth- 
ing of  your  contemplated  visit?"  objected  Deems. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Put  yourself  in  my 
place.  Rogan's  mission  is  vital.  Yet  he  visits 
you.  You  want  us  to  believe  that  he  entered 


60  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

your  apartment  in  his  blind  seeking  for  aid? 
With  no  intention  of  going  there?" 

"That's  what  I  want  you  to  believe,  because 
it's  the  truth." 

"But  the  substitute  paper?"  she  countered. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Suppose  that 
Rogan  had  lost  the  original  earlier?" 

"And  was  unaware  of  the  loss?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded.  "Look  here,  Miss  Gryce!  You 
ask  me  for  that  paper.  So  does  de  Grecque.  I 
refuse  it  to  de  Grecque.  He  tries  to  have  me 
assassinated.  Why  should  I  refuse  to  give  it  to 
you  when  de  Grecque  is  my  enemy?  Is  there  a 
third  party  who  wants  it?" 

"You've  not  given  it  to  my  father?"  she  de- 
manded, unexpectedly. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  why.     I  ask  if  you  have." 

"And  I  reply  that  I  have  not.  And  I  ask 
you,  once  again,  to  trust  me,  Miss  Gryce.  If  I 
can  be  of  service " 

"You  can,"  she  said.  "If  you  will  find  the 
paper  that  should  have  been  on  Rogan's  body, 
but  that  was  not  there  when  he  was  searched  at 
the  morgue — if  you  can  find  who  took  it— 

"And  the  nature  of  the  paper?" 

Her  eyes  narrowed.  "You  will  know  it  if  you 
find  it,  Mr.  Deems.  Provided  you  are  honest, 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  61 

now.  No  one  can  mistake  that  paper.  It  is  an 
oiled  paper — exactly  like  this  one  here."  She 
pointed  to  the  creased  sheet  on  the  table. 

Deems  sighed.  A  wildgoose  chase —  Then 
he  looked  at  the  girl.  Whatever  this  amazing 
mixup  meant,  the  girl  was  in  it.  That  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a  multimillionaire  who  happened 
to  employ  Deems  mattered  not  at  all.  Deems 
was  not  conceited,  yet  he  was  thoroughly  Ameri- 
can, which  means  that  he  considered  himself  as 
good  as  any  one  else.  The  girl  was  unmarried; 
unless  it  were  a  secret,  she  was  not  engaged. 
And  somehow  intuition  told  him  that  she  was  not 
engaged. 

'Til  find  it;  or  I'll  find  who  took  it  from 
Rogan,"  he  promised  recklessly. 

Outside,  he  shook  his  head  wearily.  What 
was  it  all  about?  And  her  father,  Stephen 
Gryce !  More  cross-purposes !  And  de  Grecque ! 
If  de  Grecque  was  Wilder — he  hadn't  even  de- 
scribed Wilder  to  Miss  Gryce;  she  knew  that 
Wilder  was  de  Grecque.  How?  She  couldn't 
have  been  loitering  near  Deems's  apartment 
house,  but  she  had  said,  "We."  Whatever  it  was 
in  which  she  was  involved,  others  were  involved  in 
it  also.  One  of  those  others  might  have  watched 
the  Deems  apartment. 

He  found  himself  walking  too  close  to  the 


62  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

houses.  He  stepped  out  nearer  the  curb.  When 
two  attempts  on  one's  life  have  been  made  it  be- 
hooves one  to  walk  cautiously.  He  was  still 
alert  when  he  entered  his  apartment.  And  yet 
he  was  taken  by  surprise.  For  the  man  sitting 
in  his  easy  chair  as  he  switched  on  the  light  was 
not  de  Grecque,  nor  did  he  hold  a  weapon  in 
view.  But  it  was  Hogan,  the  man  who  had  been 
pronounced  dead  in  this  very  room  last  night. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

MORE   SURPRISES 

ROGAN,  after  all,  was  not  quite  so  commonplace- 
seeming  as  Deems  had  thought  him  to  be  last 
night.  To  find  alive  in  one's  apartment  a  man 
whose  funeral  expenses  one  has  guaranteed 
within  the  past  twenty-four  hours  is  sufficient  to 
shock  one's  preconceptions.  But  it  was  more 
than  Rogan's  presence,  more  even  than  the  fact 
that  Rogan  was  apparently  the  centre  of  a  web 
of  intrigue  that  lent  personality  to  Deems's  vis- 
itor. It  was  a  jocular  something  in  his  eye,  a 
queer  twist  of  his  bearded  lips  as  he  grinned  at 
Deems,  that  made  the  newspaper  man  recognise 
an  insouciance  of  soul  similar  to  his  own. 

"Rattles  you,  eh?"  chuckled  Rogan. 

"Oh,  no!  Nothing  like  that  at  all.  You  die 
in  my  room ;  you  come  to  life  in  it.  Fifty-fifty 
and  fair  enough." 

"Good  conscience,"  approved  Rogan.  "Now, 
lots  of  people  would  have  thought  themselves 
haunted,  and  immediately  surrendered  the  pre- 
cious trifles  they  might  have  robbed  me  of.  I 

63 


64  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

take  it  that  you  have  been  acting  in  a  fiduciary 
capacity." 

Carefully  Deems  placed  his  hat  and  gloves  on 
a  chair.  Deliberately  he  walked  to  the  mantel 
and  selected  a  pipe.  Meticulously  he  filled  it, 
tamping  down  the  tobacco  precisely.  It  was  go- 
ing strongly  before  he  spoke  to  Rogan. 

"Analysing  that  speech  of  yours,  I  take  it  that 
I  have  something  of  yours." 

"You  get  credit  for  having  it,  from  me," 
grinned  Rogan. 

"A  piece  of  paper,  isn't  it?" 

"You  said  it,"  replied  the  bearded  man. 

"Sort  of  waxed  paper?" 

"Oiled,"  corrected  Rogan.     "Hand  it  over." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  admonished  Deems.  "Your 
presence  here.  Why  aren't  you  dead?" 

"I'll  fool  a  lot  of  doctors  yet,"  said  Rogan. 
"Suspended  animation.  Ever  hear  of  it?" 

"I  hear  you  now,"  said  Deems.  "When  did 
you  come  to?" 

"Ten  minutes  after  the  doctor  carried  me  away 
from  here  last  night." 

"Yet  nothing  was  said  to  me  about  it,"  said 
Deems. 

"Probably  not.  Decent  of  you  to  foot  the 
bills  for  my  funeral,  too.  I  owe  you  something. 
But  about  no  mention  being  made  of  my — er — 


MORE  SURPRISES 


failure  of  demise,  so  to  speak — there  were 
reasons." 

"Couldn't  tell  them  to  me,  could  you?"  ques- 
tioned Deems. 

Rogan  eyed  him.  "I  guess  so,"  he  said,  la- 
conically. "Here's  one  of  them." 

Deems  eyed  the  little  gold  badge  that  Rogan 
permitted  him  to  view.  "Secret  Service,  eh. 
Any  particular  reason  for  coming  to  me?" 

"Last  night?"  Rogan  shook  his  head.  "Felt 
dizzy ;  knew  I  was  followed ;  turned  in  first  door ; 
knocked — you  let  me  in.  At  least,  I  didn't  know 
you  then,  but  I  do  now." 

"Yes,  you  must  feel  acquainted,"  stated 
Deems,  dryly.  "I  don't  remember  giving  you  a 
latch-key." 

"Wouldn't  need  it,"  grinned  Rogan.  "Your 
lock  is  simple.  And — now — that  paper?" 

The  quizzical  look  slowly  left  his  eyes,  to  be 
replaced  by  sternness.  "You  know,"  he  said, 
"you  told  me  that  it  was  a  paper,  a  waxed  paper." 

"Surely,"  said  Deems.     "But  I  haven't  it." 

Rogan  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Lots  of  things 
to  attend  to,  to-day.  The  near-apoplectic  fit  I 
had  left  me  feeling  pretty  rocky.  Couldn't  get 
out  until  late.  Dangerous  for  me  to  go  round 
without  at  least  getting  shaved.  Throw  'em  off 
a  bit  if  I  can.  But  that  paper — who  has  it?" 


66  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Deems  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know;  I 
never  saw  it." 

"M-m-mh."  Rogan  was  thoughtful.  He 
tapped  the  little  gold  badge.  "You  understand, 
of  course " 

"Bribery  has  been  attempted  to-day;  then 
murder;  then  a  girl  bawled  me  out,  and — now 
you,  with  prison-cells — that's  it,  isn't  it?" 

"Might  even  go  that  far  with  you,  yes,"  ad- 
mitted Rogan. 

"I  guessed  so.  Well,  Mr.  Rogan,  I  haven't 
your  paper.  I  never  saw  it.  I  never  heard  of  it; 
until  twelve  hours  after  you  were  carried  out  of 
here." 

"A  girl — bawled  you  out?  That's  the 
phrase?"  inquired  Rogan. 

"You  heard  me,"  said  Deems,  resentfully. 
"Accused  me  of  being  a  crook — look  here,  Ro-» 
gan,  you  may  think  I've  double-crossed  you 
somehow,  but — you  know  perfectly  well  that  I 
never  met  you  until  last  night.  If  I  have  been 
crooked,  it's  a  recent  affair,  at  least,  so  far  as  you 
are  concerned,  isn't  it?" 

"Well?"  grunted  Rogan. 

"This:  suppose  you  just  take  it  for  granted 
that  I'm  on  the  level.  If  I'm  not  on  the  level, 
then  I'm  simply  making  a  play  to  be  thought  so. 
But,  even  if  I'm  crooked  as  hell,  it  doesn't  do  any 


MORE  SURPRISES  67 

harm  for  you  to  tell  me  what  it's  all  about.  At 
worst,  you'll  only  be  telling  me  what  I  already 
know.  What  is  this  paper,  and  where  do  you 
come  in?" 

"You  haven't  told  me  the  girl's  name,"  coun- 
tered Rogan. 

"Is  it  necessary?" 

"A  Federal  court  would  compel  you  to  tell  me 
if  I  went  that  far,"  asserted  Rogan. 

"Think  so?"  said  Deems,  defiantly. 

Rogan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  love 
your  country,  I'm  assuming.  This  is  a  sizable 
affair,  young  feller.  Tell  me  where  the  girl 
comes  in  and  I'll  tell  you  where  I  come  in.  But 
never  mind,  if  you  don't  want  to — Lydia  Gryce, 
eh?  Of  course.  Well,  why  did  she  bawl  you 
out?" 

He  knew  so  much  that  it  seemed  perfectly 
natural  for  Deems  to  tell  him  more.  "Because 
I  didn't  have  the  paper  you  left  here  to  hand 
over  to  her." 

"How  did  she  know  that  you  had  it?" 

"She  knew  that  you'd  been  here,  apparently 
died  here,"  replied  Deems. 

"Keeping  tabs  on  me,  eh?  And  how  did  you 
happen  to  see  her?  Did  she  send  for  you?" 

Deems  gazed  at  the  man.  A  member  of  the 
Secret  Service,  there  couldn't  be  any  reason  on 


68  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

earth  why  he  should  not,  having  told  so  much, 
tell  more  to  Rogan.  "She  came  here  last  night." 

"Last  night?"  ejaculated  Rogan.  "And  told 
you  who  she  was.  Or  had  you  known  her  be- 
fore?" he  demanded,  sharply. 

"Never  saw  her,"  answered  Deems.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  see  her  last  night.  But 
to-night,  at  her  father's  house,  I  recognised  her 
voice,  and — she  waited  for  me  after  I  left  her 
father  and  asked  me  for  that  original  paper." 

"Original?"  said  Rogan,  softly. 

"Yes.  While  she  was  in  my  rooms  she'd  evi- 
dently picked  up  another  piece  of  paper,  folded 
like  the  one  she  was  looking  for ;  oiled  paper,  too. 
To-night  she  accused  me  of  making  the  substi- 
tution, offered  me  huge  money  to  give  her  the 
original,  and — oh,  hell!  I'm  tired  playing  but- 
ton,, button!  I've  told  you  everything  I  know. 
What  is  that  paper?" 

"Young  feller,"  Rogan  smiled,  "it's  beginning 
to  occur  to  you,  maybe,  that  you're  touching 
into  regular  affairs,  eh  ?  Took  some  pull  to  have 
the  police  give  out  the  report  that  I  was  dead, 
eh?  And  you  say  that  somebody's  tried  to  kill 
you.  I  can  guess  the  somebody.  Stocky  sort 
•of  chap,  rolling  eyes,  eh?  Uh-huh.  I  thought 
;so.  And  a  pretty  girl  harpoons  you.  Bawls 
you  out,  proper.  Don't  you  think  that  an  affair 


MORE  SURPRISES  69 

that's  mixed  up  with  murderers  and  lovely 
women  is  a  fine  affair  to  keep  out  of?" 

"I  never  asked  in,"  Deems  reminded  him. 
"I've  been  dragged  in." 

"But  you  can  step  out  now.  Better  had, 
young  feller.  I  believe  you;  you  haven't  the 
paper  I  left  here." 

"Where  did  you  leave  it?"  demanded  Deems: 
"If  it's  as  important  as  you  say " 

"A  feller's  heart  is  a  darned  peculiar  thing," 
declared  Rogan,  "and  when  a  man's  heart  goes 
blooey,  and  he's  got  something  valuable — he's 
liable  to  hand  it  to  the  first  person  he  sees.  It 
was  kinda  important.  It  had  ought  to've  got  to 
a  certain  place  right  quick.  I  thought  that  who- 
ever read  it,  if  he  was  a  decent  American  citizen, 
would  hand  it  to  the  right  parties,  the  same  being 
the  nearest  Federal  authority.  But — you  never 
saw  it?  I  must  'a'  dropped  it  out  of  my  hands 
as  I  fell — and  the  girl  thought  she  had  it.  It 
ain't  like  Lydia  Gryce  to  be  fooled  on  a  thing 
like  that.  She's  young  enough,  but  she's  no 
spring  chicken  in  the  brain." 

Deems  flushed.  He  did  not  care  for  Rogan's 
tones.  But  rebuke  could  profitably  be  deferred 
to  information. 

"The  nature  of  the  paper.  You  were  going  to 
tell  me?"  he  said. 


70  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Pretty  valuable  document,  you're  beginning 
to  believe,  aren't  you?  Me,  in  hiding,  playing 
dead,  taking  it  for  granted  that  you're  followed, 
knowing  that  they'd  tried  to  bump  you  off " 

"You  knew  that?"  demanded  Deems. 

Rogan  grinned.  "If  they  hadn't  made  a  play 
for  you,  I'd  taken  it  for  granted  you'd  sold  out 
to  them.  Matter  of  fact,  I  gave  up  all  hope  until 
I  got  tipped  off  to  what  happened  at  the  Record 
office — then  I  went  scouting  around  for  you. 
You  see,  the  paper  hadn't  been  turned  in  to  the 
proper  people.  So  I  kinda  supposed  it  was  lost 
or — the  wrong  people  had  it.  Then — a  man  is 
killed  in  a  mixup  in  which  you  are  meant — and 
I  make  a  few  inquiries,  and  take  a  look  at  the 
killer.  I  recognise  him.  So  I  rather  guess  that 
a  certain  gang  must  think  you  have  that  paper, 
and  that  you  musta  refused  to  come  through. 
What  got  me  was  why  you  hadn't  been  down  to 
the  Federal  Building  with  it.  But  I  could  wait 
for  that  explanation.  I  sneaked  up  here.  And 
I  think  I'll  shave  before  I  leave,  too.  They 
think  I'm  dead,  but — I  look  too  much  like  my- 
self just  now.  Your  razor?" 

Deems  nodded.  "But  not  yet  awhile.  What 
was  in  the  paper?" 

"Really  anxious  to  know  still?    Might  get 


MORE  SURPRISES  71 

you  in  still  more  trouble,  you  know.  W-e-11, 
suppose  you  ask  Miss  Lydia  Gryce  about  it." 

"I  have,"  said  Deems,  shortly. 

"And  she  wouldn't  tell  you,  eh?  Nice,  kindly 
little  girl  she  is,  too.  Oughta  be  real  friendly 
with  an  upstanding  youngster  like  you.  Ought 
not  to  be  hard  to  make  her  talk ;  and  pretty  good 
sport,  too.  Wish  I  were  a  youngster  again. 
There's  the  girl  for  me:  loads  of  coin,  looks  to 
burn,  and  not  so  nice  that  she  wouldn't  be — 
nice." 

The  leer  that  accompanied  his  last  word  was 
inexpressible.  The  flush  left  Deems's  face; 
white,  silent,  he  glared  at  Rogan.  Then,  slowly, 
menace  in  his  eyes,  he  stepped  toward  the  Secret 
Service  man.  Rogan  watched  him  approach. 

"Forgotten  that  I've  a  weak  heart,  eh? 
Might  kill  me,"  he  warned. 

"You  ought  to  be  dead,"  whispered  Deems. 
"You're  going  to  eat  your  filthy  talk,  you " 

And  then  over  Rogan's  face  swept  a  most  dis- 
arming smile.  He  stepped  toward  Deems,  his 
hand  outstretched.  Uncertainly  the  newspaper 
man  stared  at  the  hand ;  he  faltered ;  his  clenched 
hands  relaxed. 

"It's  tough,  youngster,"  said  Rogan.  "But 
you're  too  nice  a  kid — I  wanted  to  know  if  you 
stood  in  with  her  or  not.  I  find  out  that  you 


72  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

don't.  Good  boy.  And  don't  mind  what  I  said 
about  her.  She  isn't  worth  it." 

"Careful,"  breathed  Deems. 

"Listen,  boy."  The  man  was  so  patently  sin- 
cere that  the  fight  left  the  spirit  of  Deems. 
"She's  a  bad  one,  that  girl.  Blessed  if  I  can  un- 
derstand what  gets  in  the  blood  of  some  of  'em. 
But  at  that,  you  can't  blame  'em  for  loving  their 
parents,  though  an  old  pole-cat  like  Gryce — well, 
speed  the  day  when  we  land  him.  We'll  maybe 
only  beat  a  lynching  party  by  a  few  seconds,  at 
that.  People  aren't  going  to  stand  around  for- 
ever and  let  him  get  away  with  treason." 

"Treason?"  echoed  Deems. 

"You  work  on  his  paper,  don't  you.  Isn't 
there  any  gossip  around  the  office?  Well,  they'd 
keep  it  quiet  at  that,  those  that  are  with  him. 
And  he  hasn't  printed  a  line  yet  that  would  get 
him  in  bad.  He's  biding  his  time.  And  I  sup- 
pose the  girl  is  in  it  to  help  him.  But  I'd  respect 
her  more  if  she  had  less  filial  love  and  more  pa- 
triotism. I  suppose  he  thinks  he'll  some  day 
have  a  title  or  something — God  knows  what 
these  treasonable  pacifists  think,  anyway!"  He 
grunted  disgustedly. 

Slowly  the  colour  ebbed  back  into  Deems's 
cheeks.  Things  became  clearer  to  him. 


MORE  SURPRISES  73 

"Is — Stephen  Gryce  involved  in — this  paper?" 
he  asked. 

"Involved?"  Rogan  laughed  harshly.  "Some- 
what!" 

Deems's  heart  sang  a  tune.  He'd  never 
doubted;  he  knew,  had  known  all  along,  that 
Lydia  Gryce  could  not  be  involved  in  anything 
wrong. 

"Seem  happy  all  of  a  sudden.  Gryce  mean  to 
you  fellers  on  the  Record?" 

Deems  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "Can't 
you  see  it?  Can  you  blame  Miss  Gryce,  if  she 
knew  what  was  in  the  wind,  for  trying  to  save 
her  father?  Wouldn't  any  girl  do  as  much? 
Wouldn't  any  man?  Why  shouldn't  she  get 
hold  of  the  paper  that—"  His  face  fell.  "But 
she  hasn't.  She  offered  me  a  hundred  thousand 
for  it,  and  would  hardly  believe  me  when  I  told 
her  that  I  didn't  have  it." 

"Clever  girl,"  commented  Rogan.  "Framing 
her  alibi  in  advance." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Deems. 

"Now  don't  try  any  gun-play,  and  remember 
that  I've  a  weak  heart  and  that  I'm  your  friend," 
warned  Rogan.  "Do  you  think  the  girl  would 
admit  she  had  the  paper  to  you?  Especially  as 
she  might  have  supposed  that  you  knew  its  con- 
tents? Certainly  not!  She  pretends  that  she 


74  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

hasn't  got  it.  She  never  knew  any  evidence 
against  her  dear  old  daddy,  bless  his  traitor's, 
heart!  Get  the  game?  She  destroys  the  evi- 
dence and  plays  little  Miss  Simple!" 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Deems,  weakly. 

"Sure  not.  There  are  a  lot  of  real  worthy 
souls  that  think  Benedict  Arnold  was  framed, 
and  that  maybe  Judas  had  a  lot  of  good  qualities, 
after  all.  You're  young,  son,  that's  all." 

"And  you  believe  that  Miss  Gryce  has  the 
paper?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  girl  with  grey  eyes  like 
hers  that  didn't  get  what  she  went  after?  She 
came  to  these  rooms  looking  for  that  paper, 
didn't  she?  Well,  believe  me,  she  left  with  it." 

"But  she  said — "  began  Deems. 

"Said?  Of  course  she  said!  Does  she  want 
to  go  to  jail?  My  Lord,  youngster,  do  you  go 
out  on  a  newspaper  story  as  well  filled  with  the 
milk  of  human  kindness  and  credulity  and  suck- 
erness  as  this?" 

The  man  was  right!  A  Secret  Service  man, 
pursued  by  enemies — undoubtedly — of  the 
United  States,  he  knew  whereof  he  spoke.  To 
pit  against  the  words  of  such  a  man  the  emotions 
aroused  by  a  pretty  face!  And  yet,  that  face 
was  so  exquisitely  lovely,  had  flamed  so  in  scorn 


MORE  SURPRISES  75 

that  he  knew  it  could  not  frame  untruth.  The 
telephone  rang.  Deems  answered  it. 

He  listened  a  moment.  He  hung  up  delib- 
erately, and  faced  Rogan. 

"The  police  have  identified  the  man  who  killed 
my  friend  Clancy,"  he  said. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Rogan. 

"Miss  Gryce's  groom.  A  man  devoted  to  her 
since  childhood,  who  taught  her  to  ride  her  first 
horse,  who 

"The  lady  thought  you  had  read  that  paper," 
said  Rogan.  "She  was  taking  no  chances.  Be- 
lieve me  now,  son?" 


CHAPTER  SIX 

FRIENDS   OR  FOES? 

"You  won't  change  your  mind,  Father?" 

Gryce's  eyes  were  impatient.  "Don't  you 
think,  Lydia,  that  I  am  the  best  judge  of  my 
own  actions?" 

"No!"  she  answered  firmly. 

Gryce  shifted  in  his  big  chair;  his  big  features 
reddened.  "Then,  my  dear,  the  only  thing  that 
I  can  see  for  us  to  do  is  to  agree  to  disagree. 
After  all  I've  lived  a  great  many  years  and  my 
life  has  been  fairly  successful  thus  far." 

"And  it  is  because  you  have  been  so  success- 
ful, because  your  example  means  so  much  that 
I'm  begging  you  now  to  think,"  she  told  him. 

His  impatient  expression  grew  more  pro- 
nounced. "Possibly,  Lydia,  I've  thought  a  lot 
on  this  matter.  Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  I 
am  not  impulsive?" 

"I  wish  you  were,"  she  blazed.  "I  wish  you 
were  so  impulsive  that  you'd  see  red,  and  make 
your  papers  mirror  what  you  see!" 

"Enough  people  are  seeing  red  now,  my  dear. 

76 


FRIENDS  OR  FOES?  77 

I  should  think  you  would  be  glad  that  your  father 
was  no^  one  of  the  millions  led  astray  by  the  lust 
for  blood." 

She  sighed  hopelessly.  "We  don't  seem  to 
meet  on  common  ground,"  she  said.  "You  make 
no  distinction  between  the  blood-lustful  and 
those  who  are  giving  their  lives  to  destroy  the 
lust  for  blood !  And  Randall !  You  are  honest, 
Father.  You're  mistaken,  dreadfully,  horribly 
mistaken,  but  Senator  Randall — he's  dishonest. 
To  re-elect  him  senator !  Do  you  know  what  the 
Germans  will  think?  That  we  are  not  heart  and 
soul  in  the  war.  A  pro- German,  a  man  who  op- 
posed, not  merely  our  entry  into  the  war,  but 
our  prosecution  of  it  after  our  entry!" 

."Randall  is  not  a  pro-German;  he's  a  lover  of 
peace,"  affirmed  her  father. 

She  looked  baffled.  "But  don't  you  see,  Fa- 
ther, that  the  very  men  who  are  most  strongly 
for  the  prosecution  of  this  war  feel  as  they  do 
because  they  love  peace.  And  because  they 
know  that  the  only  way  to  obtain  peace  is  to 
fight  for  it." 

He  smiled,  faintly  supercilious.  "You  are 
like  the  rest,  Lydia;  because  Randall  disagrees 
with  you,  you  think  him  dishonest." 

"I  know  that  he  is  dishonest." 

"You  can  prove  it?    If  you  can,  Lydia,  the 


78  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Record  is  as  open  to  you  as  it  is  to  any  person  in 
the  country.  Advance  proofs  that  a  candidate 
for  public  office  is  dishonest  and  there  isn't  influ- 
ence enough  in  the  world  to  keep  such  proofs  out 
of  my  papers." 

"You  mean  financial  dishonesty,  don't  you, 
Father?  Mental  dishonesty — that  means  noth- 
ing?" 

"That's  a  phrase,  Lydia,  and  a  phrase  is  not 
proof.  To  know  that  a  man  is  mentally  dishon- 
est one  must,  in  the  absence  of  definite  proof  that 
he  is  a  liar  or  a  thief,  be  able  to  read  his  thoughts. 
You  can't  quite  do  that,  can  you,  my  dear?"  She 
might  have  been  six  years  old,  judging  by  the 
blandness  of  his  smile. 

"Yes,  I  can  do  that,"  she  asserted.  "I  know 
exactly  what  is  in  the  mind  of  Randall.  Was  he 
a  pacifist  in  1898?  According  to  the  Congres- 
sional Record  he  voted  in  favour  of  the  war  with 
Spain.  Less  than  three  years  ago  he  denounced 
the  President  because  of  his  pacific  attitude  to- 
ward Mexico.  But  the  Spaniards  are  few  in  his 
constituency,  and  there  are  no  Mexicans.  But 
there  are  thousands  of  Germans.  The  thought 
uppermost  in  Randall's  brain  is  the  thought  of 
votes.  To  be  re-elected!  The  'how'  doesn't 
matter.  That  he  sacrifices  in  effect  his  alle- 
giance to  America  makes  no  difference  to  Sena- 


FRIENDS  OR  FOES?  79 

tor  Randall.  He  is  as  much  a  traitor  as  though 
he  invited  German  troops  to  come  over  here  and 
pointed  out  their  landing-place." 

"You  are  speaking,  my  dear,  about  one  of  the. 
greatest  men  in  America,"  said  Gryce  rebuk- 
ingly.  "Think  of  Randall's  great  record  of  pub- 
lic service,  of  what  he  has  done  for  the  people." 

"I  am  thinking  of  what  he  is  trying  to  do  now," 
she  cried. 

"And  thinking,  my  dear,  not  very  straightly.'* 

A  servant  knocked  at  the  door.  "The  Comte 
de  Grecque,"  he  announced. 

"Show  him  to  the  library.  I  will  join  him  in 
a  minute,"  said  Gryce. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair.  "Let  us,  my  dear, 
drop  a  discussion  that  is  painful  to  us  both.  I 
am  much  older  than  you,  Lydia,  and  I  think  I 
love  my  country  quite  as  well." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  she  told  him.  "It's  only 
that  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  want  to  see  you 
love  your  country  rightly.  And  there's  no  choice 
now.  Not  to  be  with  America  is  to  be  against 
her." 

Gryce's  heavy  lips  curled  in  a  sneer.  "The 
cry  of  the  pro^teer,  of  the  money-patriot,"  he 
scoffed. 

"Those  hundreds  of  thousands  of  American 
boys  who  are  volunteering — are  they  profiteers?" 


80  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"They  are  the  misguided  youths  who  make 
possible  the  profiteers'  business,"  he  rejoined. 
"But  let's  not  talk  any  more,  Lydia.  De 
Grecque  is  waiting  for  me." 

She  eyed  him  hesitatingly.  "We  don't  agree, 
Father,  but  if  I  should  tell  you  something  you 
would  not  mention  it?" 

"Lydia!  What  a  question !  We  have  drifted 
far  apart,  my  dear.  One  might  think  we  were 
enemies." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "but — you  are  becom- 
ing quite  friendly  with  the  Comte  de  Grecque. 
Will  you,  Father,  be  careful  what  you  say  to 
him?" 

He  frowned.  "That's  the  trouble  with  all  of 
your  sex,  Lydia;  if  a  woman  disagrees  with  a 
person  she  at  once  thinks  that  person  morally 
lacking.  But  a  man,  because  another  man  dis- 
agrees with  him,  does  not  assume  moral  turpi- 
tude on  the  part  of  the  other." 

"Does  the  Comte  de  Grecque  disagree  with 
your  views  on  the  war?"  she  asked  quietly. 

He  stared  at  her,  sudden  disquiet  in  his  eyes. 
"De  Grecque  has  fought  for  France ;  he  is  in  the 
service  of  France  now." 

"That  doesn't  answer  my  question.  But  you 
needn't  answer  it.  I  know  more  of  the  Count 


FRIENDS  OR  FOES?  81 

than  you  do,  Father,  and  I  beg  you  to  see  little 
of  him." 

"You  know  more  of  de  Grecque?  Lydia, 
you're  absurd." 

"And  yet — Father,  you  haven'jt  discovered 
what  possessed  Johann  yesterday  afternoon?" 

Gryce's  eyes  saddened.  "Insane,  poor  Jo- 
hann." 

"Yet  he  asked  quite  sanely  for  Mr.  Deems. 
He  carefully  divested  himself  of  everything  that 
would  show  his  identity.  He  even,  according  to 
the  police  doctors,  tried  to  aim  the  shot  that  killed 
himself  so  that  it  would  render  his  face  unrecog- 
nisable. For  an  insane  man  he  was  extremely 
cunning." 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  Lydia?"  demanded 
her  father. 

"Johann  was  a  German,"  she  said. 

"Well?  Even  Germans  go  insane,  you 
know." 

"And  you  can  think  of  no  reason  why  a  Ger- 
man should  want  to  kill  Mr.  Deems?"  she  asked. 

"Lydia,  you're  making  out  Johann  a  deliber- 
ate murderer.  Johann,  who  taught  you  to  ride, 
who  adored  the  ground  you  walked  on." 

"But  suppose  I  should  tell  you  that  to  a  Ger- 
man who  served  his  native  land  Mr.  Deems  might 
seem  a  dangerous  person?" 


82  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Gryce  looked  disgusted.  "Deems  is  a  capable 
reporter,  and  personally  a  likable  youngster,  but 
I  don't  think  that  the  German  Empire  concerns 
itself  very  much  with  Deems.  Nor  do  I  think 
that  Johann  could  have  been  a  person  of  very 
great  consequence  in  the  German  scheme  of 
things." 

"That  is  why,  having  done  what  he  was  told  to 
do — having  thought  he  had  accomplished  what 
was  demanded  of  him — Johann  killed  himself. 
The  important  ones  do  not  take  the  deadly  risks. 
Johann  was  a  pawn  and  pawns  are  sacrificed  in 
the  great  game." 

"Lydia,  you  talk  like  the  heroine  of  a  dime 
novel.  The  Germans  in  this  country  are  as 
friendly  and  loyal  to  us  as  those  of  any  other 
country." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that?  In  view  of  all 
the  outrages  that  have  happened  here?  But  we 
won't  argue  any  more.  I  only  beg  of  you  to  be 
careful  with  de  Grecque." 

"I  suppose  that  de  Grecque,"  he  sneered,  "is 
in  some  way  connected  with  Johann's  action  of 
yesterday.  You  couple  their  names  in  succeed- 
ing sentences." 

She  hesitated.  "Once  again,  Father,  no  mat- 
ter how  absurd  what  I  say  may  seem — you  will 
not  repeat  it?" 


FRIENDS  OR  FOES?  83 

He  bowed.  Mockingly  he  answered,  "I  shall 
keep  your  great  secrets  inviolable." 

"Then  I  tell  you  that  de  Grecque  was  Jo- 
hann's  paymaster." 

"All  you  have  to  do,  Lydia,"  he  said  sternly, 
"is  prove  such  an  outrageous  assertion  against 
the  character  of  a  French  diplomatic  officer 
and — but  you  are  so  absurd.  As  if  there  were 
any  reason  for  any  great  plot  against  young 
Deems !  And  as  if  the  Comte  de  Grecque  could 
be  serving  German  ends." 

"I  haven't  the  proof  now,"  she  admitted,  "but 
when  I  do- 

"Lydia,"  he  said,  "I  have  never  attempted  to 
exert  unreasonable  authority,  but  you  seem  in- 
fected with  the  madness  of  suspicion  that  is 
prevalent  in  the  country  to-day.  I  thought  you 
were  sane.  Senator  Randall!  The  Comte  de 
Grecque!  You  are  melodramatically  ridicu- 
lous, my  dear." 

He  left  her  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
her  hands  tightly  clenched. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

TEEASON   IN   BOOKS 

THE  secretary  of  the  Booklovers'  Club  rapped 
gently  on  the  table.  He  looked  mildly  about 
him,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  lifted  in  a 
quick  smile.  The  group  of  eight  men  ceased 
their  conversation.  The  waiter  who  had  placed 
an  envelope  by  the  secretary's  plate  quietly  with- 
drew from  the  room. 

They  were,  for  the  most  part,  not  only  well- 
groomed,  but  they  had  about  them  the  look  that 
suggested  a  university  background.  Well-born, 
moneyed,  cultured;  that  was  the  impression  that 
they  would  have  conveyed  to  most  persons. 

That  one  or  two  of  them  had  an  authoritative 
manner  that  somehow  is  not  expected  to  be  an 
attribute  of  the  bookish,  and  that  the  hands  of 
others  were  unusually  roughened,  might  have 
been  unnoticed  by  the  casual.  Attentively  they 
waited  for  the  secretary  to  speak. 

He  lifted  a  sheet  of  paper.  "From  our 
friend,  Heinrich  Graffe,"  he  announced. 

84 


TREASON  IN  BOOKS  85 

"Wanting  money,  eh?"  grunted  a  man  at  the 
foot  of  the  table. 

The  mild-eyed  secretary  looked  reprovingly  at 
the  speaker.  "A  club  should  never  fail  to  pay 
its  debts  on  demand,"  he  said.  "Graffe  supplies 
us  with  most  of  our  rare  editions,  and " 

There  was  something  subtly  humorous,  to  his 
auditors,  in  his  remark,  and  grins  ran  around  the 
table.  The  man  who  had  spoken  nodded  assent 
to  the  secretary.  "It  is  all  right,"  he  said. 
"Graffe  is  a  worthy  man.  How  much  this 
time?" 

The  secretary  shook  his  head.  He  beamed, 
through  his  horn-rimmed  spectacles. 

"Culture  spreads,"  he  announced.  "With 
half  the  world  thinking  only  in  terms  of  destruc- 
tion, the  other  half  thinks  of  creation." 

Again  a  grin  ran  around  the  table.  "If  it  only 
were  half,"  grunted  the  man  who  had  spoken 
before. 

"It  will  be,  Jamison,"  said  the  secretary  com- 
placently. "But — the  letter.  Graffe  introduces 
to  us  a  worthy  aspirant  for  knowledge.  He  is 
outside.  His  name  is  Curtiss — William  Cur- 
tiss." 

"Why  does  he  not  apply  through  the  regular 
channels  of  admission?"  demanded  Jamison. 

The   secretary  shrugged  his   shoulders.     "If 


86 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Graff  e  thinks  him  worthy  of  a  special  introduc- 
tion— shall  we  have  him  in?" 

A  murmur  ran  around  the  table.  The  secre- 
tary pressed  a  bell.  To  the  waiter  who  reap- 
peared he  ordered  that  Mr.  Curtiss  be  shown  in. 

The  secretary  met  the  newcomer  at  the  door-. 
He  shook  hands  warmly. 

"A  friend  of  our  fellow-bibliophile  is  very  wel- 
come here,  Mr.  Curtiss,"  he  said.  "And  how  is 
Mr.  Graff  e?" 

"Quite  well,"  replied  the  newcomer.  His 
manner  was  diffident,  and  before  he  advanced 
fully  into  the  room,  his  glance  had  rested  on  the 
face  of  every  man  there. 

"Gentlemen,  Mr.  Curtiss,"  said  the  secretary. 

A  jumble  of  pleasant  greetings  followed. 
The  secretary  pulled  a  chair  close  to  his  own. 

"Mr.  Graff  e  tells  us  that  you  wish  to  join  our 
club.  He  makes  rather  a  point  of  it;  doesn't 
want  us  to  wait  until  the  semi-annual  election  of 
members,  but  prefers  that  the  board  of  directors 
elect  you  at  once." 

The  newcomer  nodded.  "We  thought  that 
perhaps  it  would  be  better  that  way,"  he  said. 

The  secretary  looked  a  question.  Quite  evi- 
dently he  waited  for  Curtiss  to  explain. 

"Things  are  focusing  rapidly  in  Washington," 
said  Curtiss. 


TREASON  IN  BOOKS  87 

The  secretary  looked  blank.  The  board  of  di- 
rectors took  their  cue  from  him ;  their  faces  were 
non-committal. 

"Publicity  is  needed,"  went  on  Curtiss.  He 
looked  about  him  a  trifle  defiantly. 

"Yes?"  encouraged  the  secretary  gently. 

"There  is  talk  in  Washington  to  the  effect  that 
the  President  will  ask  Congress  to  pass  a  draft 
law." 

"Yes?"  said  the  secretary  again. 

Curtiss  shrugged.  "Publicity  men  might  be 
extremely  useful  just  now." 

"In  what  way?"  asked  the  secretary. 

"In  moulding  public  opinion — and  the  opin- 
ions of  members  of  the  national  legislature." 
Curtiss  looked  around  the  room.  "Against  the 
draft,"  he  added. 

The  secretary  picked  up  the  letter  of  introduc- 
tion. He  read  it  carefully  through  again. 

"You  are  an  American  citizen,  Mr.  Curtiss?" 
he  asked. 

"Straight  revolutionary  stock,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

"And  your — er — interest  in  this  matter?" 

"You're  interested,  aren't  you?  And  these 
gentlemen  here?  Why  shouldn't  I  be  inter- 
ested, then?" 

"This  is  a  society  of  men  interested  in  rare 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND' 


editions,"  said  the  secretary.  He  looked  again 
at  the  letter  of  introduction.  "You  have  known 
Mr.  Graffe  a  long  time?" 

The  board  of  directors  seemed  to  leave  the 
matter  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  secretary. 
Curtiss  met  his  glances  coolly. 

"As  his  letter  says — two  years  and  a  half." 

"A  personal  friendship,  or " 

Curtiss  laughed.  "Financial,  also.  A  man 
who  keeps  his  word  can  gain  my  personal  friend- 
ship. Graffe  has  always  made  good." 

"In  what  way,  please?" 

"Well,  his  checks  have  never  come  back  from 
the  banks,"  grinned  Curtiss. 

"And  those  checks?"  queried  the  secretary. 

"The  Miners'  Protective  Fraternity  of  Mon- 
tana; they  struck,  as  you  will  remember;  Eng- 
land needed  copper  badly,  too.  A  great  many 
thousand  acres  of  rice  were  destroyed  in  Arkan- 
sas last  year.  The  negroes  refused  to  work. 
The  I.  W.  W.  got  the  credit,  but — Heinrich 
Graffe  knows  who  got  the  money.  There  have 
been  many  other  matters." 

The  secretary  looked  thoughtful.  "But — you 
spoke  of  publicity.  Those  matters — a  little  bit 
more  devious  than  publicity,  weren't  they?" 

Curtiss  looked  a  trifle  bored.     "Erin's  Loyal 


TREASON  IN  BOOKS  89 

Sons  got  into  the  newspapers  quite  a  bit  this  past 
winter." 

The  secretary  whistled.  Around  the  table 
faces  lighted  up. 

"You  did  that?"  asked  Jamison. 

"Well,  I  wasn't  responsible  for  the  editorial 
attitude  assumed  by  most  of  the  press,  but — I 
got  them  the  space  for  their  meetings.  I  can't 
change  editorial  policies  for  you,  but  I  can  get 
news  into  the  papers.  Even  when  it  isn't  ex- 
actly news,"  he  grinned. 

"And  you  worked  for  Heinrich  Graff e?" 
asked  Jamison. 

Curtiss  lowered  one  eyelid.  "I  never  ask  too 
many  questions,"  he  replied.  "Graffe  paid  me 
— that's  been  enough  for  me." 

"And  you  come  to  us  because " 

"Because  Graffe  sent  me  here."  Curtiss 
broke  into  the  secretary's  question. 

"You  knew  of — us — before  Graffe  introduced 
us?" 

Curtiss  shook  his  head. 

The  secretary  looked  at  the  board  of  direc- 
tors. He  seemed  to  read  the  answer  to  his  un- 
uttered  question.  He  turned  to  Curtiss. 

"Graffe  is  well-known  to  us,"  he  said  slowly. 
"And  he  would  not  have  talked,  as  he  must  have 
talked  to  you,  unless  he  knew  you  were  worthy 


90  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

of  trust.     You  will  hear  from  us,  Mr.  Curtiss." 

His  tones  were  those  of  dismissal.  Curtiss 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"My  address  is " 

The  secretary  shook  his  head.  "It  is  quite  un- 
necessary, Mr.  Curtiss.  When  we  want  you  we 
shall  find  you." 

He  was  smiling,  and  through  his  round  spec- 
tacles his  eyes  beamed;  his  voice  was  friendly, 
gentle  almost;  but  the  man  to  whom  he  spoke 
sensed  the  subtle  threat.  But  his  manner  was 
cool  as  he  bowed  and  left  the  private  dining-room 
of  the  Cafe  du  Marechal,  where  the  board  of 
directors  of  the  Booklovers'  Club  was  holding  its 
weekly  meeting. 

He  was  still  cool,  although  a  trifle  more  seri- 
ous of  expression,  when  he  entered  the  bookshop 
of  Heinrich  Graffe,  on  Lexington  Avenue. 

A  few  elderly  men  roamed  about  the  shop, 
thumbing  worn  volumes  that  they  took  down, 
without  protest  from  the  one  clerk,  a  rather  stout, 
middle-aged,  Teutonic-seeming  woman,  who  ap- 
peared more  interested  in  stockings  that  she 
darned  than  in  trade. 

Curtiss  inclined  his  head  toward  the  woman, 
swept  the  prospective  customers  with  a  glance, 
and  advanced  to  the  rear  of  the  store.  There,  in 
a  sort  of  cubby-hole,  reached  by  a  short  flight 


TREASON  IN  BOOKS  91 

of  stairs,  was  the  office  of  Heinrich  Graffe. 
From  his  higher  perch  the  bookseller  could  watch 
his  customers,  and  his  face  had  wrinkled  in  a 
smile  from  the  moment  of  Curtiss's  entrance. 

"Well,"  he  greeted  the  young  man,  "you  went, 
you  saw,  and  you — what,  young  feller?" 

Curtiss  sat  down  on  a  shiny  chair.  He  looked 
down  upon  the  store,  its  customers,  its  drowsy 
woman-clerk,  its  book-shelves.  He  turned  to 
Graffe. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  do  it,  Rogan,  old  top," 
he  said,  with  apparent  irrelevance. 

The  bookseller  passed  a  hand  over  a  smoothly 
shaven  chin.  "Do  what?"  he  asked.  He 
grinned  amiably. 

"Well,  among  other  things,  what  you  did  just 
now — rubbing  your  chin.  It  wasn't  so  long  ago 
that  you  wore  a  beard,  and " 

"But  Heinrich  Graffe  has  always  been  smooth- 
shaven.  Ever  since  he  was  born — about  three 
years  ago,"  grinned  Rogan.  "When  Heinrich 
went  on  a  vacation  three  months  ago — the  first 
thing  Heinrich  did  was  to  grow  a  beard.  Then 
— when  he  decided  to  return  to  New  York  and 
his  bookstore — he  shaved.  I  kinda  flatter  my- 
self, young  feller,  that  it  would  take  a  mighty 
sharp  pair  of  eyes  to  detect  that  I've  shaved  only 
recently.  I  ought  to  be  white,  but  a  week's  au- 


92  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

tomobiling  spreads  such  a  tan  that  it's  pretty 
hard  to  tell  what's  new  and  what's  old  about 
it." 

"I  know,"  said  the  young  man,  "but — well, 
you're  getting  away  with  it,  and  I  suppose  that's 
answer  enough." 

"Not  getting  cold  feet,  are  you?"  inquired  Re- 
gan. "Want  to  pull  out?  Excuse  me;  I  know 
better  than  that."  He  eyed  the  young  man.  "It 
is  risky,  but — a  man  that  doesn't  want  his  coun- 
try Germanised — he  takes  the  risk,  Deems,  my 
boy.  That  gang — that  smooth  bunch  of  trai- 
tors—did they  fall?" 

"I  guess  so,"  replied  Deems.  "They'll  let  me 
know,  I  take  it.  My  alibi — will  it  stand  inves- 
tigation?" 

Rogan  shrugged.  "If  they  go  very  far  into 
the  details  of  Heinrich  Graff  e — I've  planted  my- 
self as  far  as  I  can,  but — oh,  well,  it's  all  in  a 
lifetime.  But  about  you — the  Arkansas  and 
Colorado  matters — the  man  really  responsible 
for  those  troubles  is  in  a  Federal  jail.  He  was 
about  your  general  build  and  looks.  You're 
fairly  safe.  But  not  very  safe.  Does  it  mat- 
ter?" 

Deems  shook  his  head.  "Not  very  much.  I 
love  my  skin,  like  any  man,  but — a  chance  is  a 
chance,  and  I  like  to  take  it.  Especially — Ro- 


TREASON  IN  BOOKS  93 

gan,  in  God's  name,  why?  That  crowd  there — 
not  more  than  three  of  them,  if  I'm  a  judge,  are 
German-born.  And  they've  been — or  they 
should  have  been — Americanised.  What  have 
they  against  this  country?  Is  pacifism  a  dis- 
ease— or " 

"Ask  some  one  brighter  than  me,"  said  Rogan. 
"By  the  way,  nobody  fussing  around  the  place 
you're  living?" 

Deems  shook  his  head. 

"Haven't  run  into  any  one  from  the  Record?" 

"No,  fortunately." 

'  'Fortunately'  is  right,"  asserted  Rogan.  "I 
guess — well,  de  Grecque  thinks,  maybe,  that  you 
tipped  off  the  Government,  and " 

"Wouldn't  de  Grecque  have  disappeared  in 
that  case?"  demanded  Deems. 

"Flight  is  confession,"  replied  Rogan,  "and  de 
Grecque  isn't  the  confessing  kind.  He  wouldn't 
beat  it;  he'd  stay  and  fight." 

"But  if  you  are  right,  and  Miss  Gryce  has  the 
paper,  and  her  father  stands  in  with  de  Grecque 
— wouldn't  de  Grecque  know  by  now  that  he  has 
nothing  to  fear,  that  the  girl  or  her  father  have 
the  paper?"  asked  Deems. 

Rogan  looked  shrewd.  "Suppose,"  he  said, 
"that  old  man  Gryce  is  willing  that  de  Grecque 
think  the  paper  lost?  He's  getting  into  deep 


94  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

water,  Gryce  is,  but  if  de  Grecque  has  nothing 
on  him — he  can  pull  out,  can't  he?  And  if  de 
Grecque,  suspicious  of  his  good  faith,  should  ask 
him  to  sign  another  paper,  Gryce  could  refuse 
on  the  ground  that  de  Grecque  was  too  careless. 
Something  like  that  may  be  in  the  minds  of  the 
Gryces,  eh?" 

"Then  that  paper — it  was  something  that 
Gryce  had  signed?" 

"Maybe,"  said  Rogan. 

"And  if  de  Grecque  had  it — you  must  have 
taken  it  from  de  Grecque,"  cried  Deems. 

"Never  denied  it,  did  I?"  grinned  Rogan. 

"And  yet — you  dare  continue — and  de 
Grecque  belongs  to  that  Booklovers'  Club?" 

"You  might  have  met  him  there  to-day.  I 
warned  you." 

Deems  nodded.  "I  know.  But  Rogan — to 
use  me — if  de  Grecque  should  see  me — you'd  be 
suspected,  known,  too." 

"That's  why  I  want  you  to  be  careful,  son," 

said  Rogan.  "I've  got  to  use  you.  I  mean " 

he  paused  uncertainly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  'got  to  use  me'?"  ques- 
tioned Deems. 

"Why,  well — it  didn't  seem  quite  fair — hav- 
ing got  you  into  something  by  being  ill  in  your 
rooms — made  your  newspaper  job  dangerous — 


TREASON  IN  BOOKS  95 

murderers  running  around — I  didn't  exactly 
mean  'got  to,'  but — you  see  how  it  is." 

"Y-e-s,"  admitted  Deems  doubtfully.  "Still, 
when  it's  a  matter  of  national  security — you 
could  get  me  a  job  elsewhere  in  the  Secret  Serv- 
ice, couldn't  you?" 

Rogan  didn't  meet  his  eyes.  "Sure  I  could," 
he  answered  with  bluff  heartiness.  "I  get  it. 
The  Gryce  girl — you  don't  want  to  land  her." 

"I  think  we  can  leave  her  out  of  this,  Rogan. 
She — you're  mistaken  about  her.  She — she's 
one  of  the  best." 

"We'll  leave  her  out,"  said  Rogan.  "But  just 
the  same,  if  she  comes  around  to  see  you — call 
a  cop." 

Deems  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Rogan  was 
a  coarse  brute  in  more  ways  than  one.  But,  he 
was  one  of  the  Secret  Service,  and  Deems,  by 
helping  him,  was  serving  his  country.  And  if 
Rogan  could  cheerfully  run  the  extra  risk  en- 
tailed by  using  Deems,  with  the  dangers  of 
Deems's  recognition  by  so  many,  as  his  assistant, 
why  he,  Deems,  could  run  the  risk,  too.  Further- 
more if  Lydia  Gryce  had  been  foolish  enough — 
it  was  no  embryo  treason  on  her  part  that  had 
brought  her  into  the  affair — to  risk  her  own  se- 
curity in  order  to  save  her  father  the  conse- 
quences of  his  more  than  embryonic  treachery 


96  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

— well,  by  trailing  along  with  Rogan  he  might, 
at  the  finish,  help  her.  Also — he  hadn't  forgot- 
ten his  compact  with  the  girl.  She  would  be- 
lieve in  his  honesty  when  he  found  the  paper  that 
Rogan  had  dropped  in  his  room,  or  found  the 
person  who  had  taken  it  from  Rogan.  By  stick- 
ing with  Rogan  he'd  find  out,  perhaps,  what  she 
wanted  to  know. 

His  face  darkened.  The  evidence  was  too 
strong.  Rogan  had  had  the  paper  when  he  en- 
tered Deems's  rooms.  The  girl  had  taken  it,  and 
had  lied  to  him  when  she  denied  having  it. 

He  had  been  gloomy  enough  during  the  week 
that  had  elapsed  since  he  had  had  his  interview 
with  the  girl.  Not  even  the  excitement  of  pre- 
paring a  new  identity,  or  facing  peril,  had  ban- 
ished gloom.  Rogan  and  common  sense  told 
him  that  Lydia  Gryce  was  dishonest,  an  embryo, 
if  not  an  actual,  traitor.  But  instinct  told  him 
quite  the  contrary.  He  wondered,  as  he  walked 
to  the  rooms  on  Irving  Place,  where,  as  William 
Curtiss,  he  had  been  living  for  the  past  week, 
which  was  right. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

BOMBS 

EARLIER,  undoubtedly,  than  the  instinct  of  love 
is  the  instinct  of  the  chase.  Deems,  of  course, 
was  not  certain  of  his  regard  for  Lydia  Gryce. 
He  knew  that  he  had  hated,  more  than  he  hated 
anything  else  in  the  world,  the  ever-insistent 
thought  that  the  girl  had  lied  to  him,  was  dis- 
loyal to  her  country.  Yet  he  also  realised  that 
he  had  conversed  with  her  but  twice,  and  had 
seen  her,  really,  only  once.  A  man  couldn't  be 

in  love  on  such  short  notice !    And  yet It 

was  as  he  rounded  the  corner  from  Gramercy 
Park  into  Irving  Place  that  the  earlier  instinct 
banished  the  latter.  Some  one  was  unobtrusively 
following  him.  He  knew  it  as  certainly  as 
he  knew  that  he  breathed. 

He  mastered  the  impulse  to  stop,  to  turn. 
When  the  secretary  of  the  Booklovers'  Club  had 
told  him  that  "when  we  want  you  we  shall  find 
you,"  the  secretary  had  undoubtedly  meant  ex- 
actly what  was  happening  now.  That  it  would 
have  been  more  simple,  inasmuch  as  the  members 

97 


98    •  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

of  the  Booklovers'  Club  trusted  the  pseudo  Hein- 
rich  Graff e,  to  have  inquired  Deems's  address 
from  the  Lexington  Avenue  bookseller,  was 
something  that  did  not  enter  into  Deems's  cal- 
culations. He  realised  only  that  the  men  who 
composed  the  society  into  whose  inner  workings 
and  purposes  he  hoped  to  insinuate  himself  were 
not  fools;  that  before  they  gave  to  the  new  ap- 
plicant for  admission  their  trust  they  would  in- 
vestigate him  thoroughly. 

Well,  he  was  ready  for  investigation.  He 
struggled  with  a  grin  as  he  mounted  the  short 
stoop  to  his  lodging-house. 

It  was  early  evening,  and  he  might  as  well  eat 
now  as  later.  Besides,  if  the  person — or  persons 
— who  had  been  following  him  intended  to  visit 
his  rooms — and  they  must  so  intend  to — it  was 
somewhat  of  a  shame  to  keep  them  cooling  their 
heels  outside.  He  surveyed  his  room  carefully 
and  left  it. 

There  was  an  excellent  restaurant  on  a  nearby 
side  street.  There,  treating  himself  extremely 
well  to  fried  chicken  and  waffles,  he  picked  up  an 
evening  paper.  The  news  was  exciting;  Amer- 
ica was  quite  definitely  in  the  war,  and  the  pros- 
pects of  a  draft  law  looked  not  too  remote.  He 
pursed  his  lips;  a  good,  healthy  youth  like  him- 
self, with  no  obligations,  might  well  obtain  a  com- 


BOMBS  99 

mission.  However,  for  the  present  that  could 
wait.  He  turned  to  the  editorial  page. 

A  virulent  attack  upon  Gryce,  his  erstwhile 
employer,  caught  his  eye.  Gryce  was  opposing 
the  passage  of  a  draft  law,  evidently;  was,  accord- 
ing to  this  paper,  endeavouring  to  hamper  the 
Government  in  its  hardly-begun  preparations  for 
war,  and  was  advocating  the  re-election  to  the 
Senate  of  Randall,  an  ardent  pacifist. 

Deems  put  the  paper  down.  The  chase  of 
which  he  was  the  object  had  obscured,  for  the 
moment,  the  vision  that  he  carried  behind  his 
eyes  of  Lydia  Gryce.  This  attack  upon  her 
father  brought  her  back  into  his  mind.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  it ;  Gryce  was  a  potential  traitor, 

at  the  least.  What  his  daughter  might  be 

Well,  he  would  think  of  her  no  more.  He  would 
stick  to  Rogan ;  help  Rogan  with  his  work  of  es- 
pionage; and  then,  when  that  was  over — well, 

there  would  be  officers'  training  camps,  and 

He  had  a  sense  of  humour.  By  the  time  that  he 
had  reached  a  stage  in  his  mental  progression 
where  he  beheld  himself  leading  a  charge  over  the 
top,  and  saw  Lydia  Gryce  dazed  and  white  as  she 
read  his  name  in  the  list  of  casualties,  he  began 
to  grin. 

He  grinned  a  lot ;  not  an  inane  grin,  but  a  grin 
of  health  and  good  humour.  The  absurdities  of 


100  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

life  were  so  many!  But  to  a  person  with  guilt 
upon  her  conscience  the  Deems  grin  might  read- 
ily seem  sardonic.  His  landlady,  encountering 
him  in  the  hall  as  he  let  himself  in  after  his  din- 
ner, coloured  slightly. 

Ordinarily  she  was  a  most  loquacious  person. 
Deems  had  been  resident  in  her  house  barely  a 
week,  but  in  that  time  she  had  managed  to  in- 
form him  of  her  three  marriages,  her  daughter 
who  was  in  the  "movies,"  and  something  of  her 
social  status  as  a  girl.  So  her  hasty  brushing-by 
of  her  new  lodger,  without  a  word  of  greeting, 
formed,  in  addition  to  her  faint  flush,  a  bit  of 
evidence  that  one  glance  at  the  table  in  his  room 
enabled  Deems  to  verify. 

He  had  not  presented  his  letter  of  introduc- 
tion this  afternoon  without  making  anticipatory 
plans.  One  of  those  plans  was  a  half-written 
article  that  lay  upon  his  table.  It  was  an  article 
strongly  condemning  the  entry  of  the  United 
States  into  the  war  and  calling  all  who  read  it  to 
resist  in  every  possible  manner  any  attempt  of 
Congress  or  the  President  to  send  troops  to 
Europe. 

It  was,  Deems  realised  with  shamefaced  pride, 
a  well-written  article.  If  any  member  of  the 
Booklovers'  Club  happened  to  read  this  manu- 
script that  member  would  be  absolutely  con- 


BOMBS  101 

vinced  that  Deems — or  Curtiss — was  at  least 
truthful  in  his  pretensions  to  being  a  literary 
man.  The  article  was  pro-German  to  a  degree; 
if  they  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  its  author,  then 
Deems's  effort  to  insinuate  himself  into  the  club 
could  be  furthered. 

And  some  one  had  been  in  the  room.  Of 
course,  it  might  have  been  his  landlady.  Garru- 
lous persons  are  nearly  always  curious.  But 
Deems  did  not  think  so.  Enviably  ignorant,  so 
that  no  tragedy  greater  than  the  defection  of  a 
servant  could  possibly  interest  her,  the  world  war 
was  outside  the  scope  of  her  thought.  If  she 
read  Deems's  article  she  would  not  understand 
it.  And  he  was  quite  certain  that  she  would 
never  have  progressed  beyond  the  first  stage.  But 
whoever  had  tampered  with  the  arrangement  of 
the  pages  had  not  stopped  at  the  first  paragraph. 
That  person  had  placed  in  their  proper  order  the 
third  and  fourth  pages,  which  had  not  been  in  or- 
der when  Deems  had  left  his  room  for  dinner. 

But  it  did  not  need  all  this  deep  reasoning. 
Some  one  from  the  Booklovers'  Club  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  bookshop  on  Lexington  Avenue, 
thence  to  his  lodgings  and,  most  certainly  after 
he  had  departed,  to  his  room. 

His  landlady  knocked  at  the  door.  "Got 
plenty  towels,  Mr.  Curtiss?" 


102  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Thank  you,  yes,"  replied  Deems. 

His  tone  was  one  of  polite  dismissal.  But  she 
lingered.  "Don't  you  want  no  soap  nor  noth- 
in'?" 

Heretofore  Deems  had  had  difficulty  in  obtain- 
ing towels  in  sufficient  number  to  gratify  his  de- 
sire for  ablutions,  and  his  soap  he  provided  for 
himself. 

Also,  she  did  not  meet  his  eye.  The  spirit  of 
mischief,  never  entirely  dormant  in  him,  became 
wide  awake.  There  was  something  so  con- 
sciously-unconscious in  her  manner  that  it  tickled 
him.  She  had,  beyond  the  shadow  of  doubt,  per- 
mitted the  person  who  had  been  following  Deems 
to  enter  his  room  during  her  lodger's  absence. 
Like  the  child  who  hovers,  with  an  appearance  of 
extreme  innocence,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  window 
that  it  has  broken,  so  the  landlady  could  not  tear 
herself  away  from  Deems. 

"Ain't  nothin'  at  all  I  can  do  for  you?"  she 
insisted. 

Deems  became  possessed  of  the  desire  to  break 
through  the  wall  of  innocence. 

"Why — yes,"  said  Deems.  "How  long  did 
you  let  him  stay  in  my  room?" 

"Not  more  than "  She  gasped;  the  colour 

that  she  had  worn  entirely  vanished.  "I  mean — 


BOMBS  103 

she  didn't  go  in  here — I  dunno  what  you're  talk- 
ing about." 

Just  one  word  in  her  incoherent  speech  startled 
Deems.  It  was  the  word  "she." 

"A  woman?  What  did  she  look  like?  Don't 
bother  to  deny  it,  now.  How  much  did  she  give 
you?  I'll  double  it.  It's  all  right;  don't  be 
frightened,  I  don't  mind  at  all." 

His  hand  had  gone  into  his  trousers  pocket; 
it  came  out  clasping  a  roll  of  bills.  The  woman 
stared  at  them. 

"Twenty  dollars,  Mr.  Curtiss,  but— 

Deems  thrust  some  bills  into  her  hand.  "De- 
scribe her,"  he  said. 

He  stood  a  long  time,  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow, after  she  had  taken  her  flustered  but  rich 
departure.  A  woman's  eyes  are  very  keen. 
The  description  given  by  the  landlady  of  the  vis- 
itor to  Deems's  room  answered  Deems's  visual- 
isation of  Lydia  Gryce. 

Out  of  sheer  mischief  he  had  surprised  the 
landlady  into  confession  that  she  had  admitted 
some  one  into  the  room.  But  the  spirit  of  mis- 
chief was  gone  from  him  now. 

He  had  flattered  himself  that  he  had  absolutely 
disappeared  from  his  old  haunts;  that  no  one, 
save  Rogan,  knew  that  William  Curtiss  was 
really  Bob  Deems.  He  had  prepared  for  an  in- 


104 


vasion  of  his  apartment  by  some  one  from  the 
Booklovers'  Club.  He  had,  indeed,  rented  the 
room  on  Irving  Place  partly  because  the  land- 
lady had  seemed  so  thoroughly  venal.  He  had 
not  thought  for  a  minute  that  she  would  refuse, 
on  being  properly — or  improperly — bribed,  to 
let  any  one  search  his  effects. 

But  that  Lydia  Gryce  should  have  been  the 
one  to  pay  the  bribe!  The  evidence  was  cumu- 
lative. Lydia  Gryce  nocturnally  had  visited  his 
apartment;  Lydia  Gryce's  groom  had  killed 
Clancy;  and  now — Lydia  Gryce  had  been  in  his 
room. 

But  why?  Rogan  was  convinced  that  the 
Gryces  held  the  paper  that  Rogan  had  obtained 
from  de  Grecque  only  to  lose.  Why  should 

Lydia  Gryce But,  her  groom  had  killed 

Clancy  in  mistake  for  Deems!  Could  it  be  that 
the  girl  meditated — he  hated,  even  in  thought, 
to  name  the  word.  One  murder  had  already 
been  committed,  but  that  she  should  meditate  an- 
other  

To  the  south  lay  Fourteenth  Street.  He  could 
see  the  west  corner,  where  Irving  Place  had  its 
conflux  with  the  cross-town  street ;  he  looked,  his 
eyes  close  to  the  window-pane,  to  the  north.  He 
could  see,  through  the  gathering  gloom,  the  trees 
of  Gramercy  Park.  Somehow  the  trees  spelled 


BOMBS  105 

solitude.  There  was  no  solitude  for  him  in  this 
room,  this  room  so  recently  visited  by  Lydia 
Gryce.  He  could  be  more  alone  near  the  park, 
peopled  though  the  streets  surrounding  it  might 
be  by  the  hundreds  who,  on  a  spring  evening 
like  this,  would  be  tempted  to  that  rarest  of  rec- 
reations to  a  New  Yorker,  an  evening  stroll. 

He  could  not  stay.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
came  to  him  as  an  afterthought,  it  was  dangerous 
for  him  to  remain  here.  That  the  Booklovers' 
Club  members  might  know  his  address — he  had 
courted  investigation  from  t]pem.  But  that 
Lydia  Gryce  should  know  it  spelled  imminent 
danger.  De  Grecque!  If  Rogan  were  right,  de 
Grecque  was  an  ally  of  Gryce,  and  Lydia  Gryce 
stood  with  her  father.  Then — if  Lydia  Gryce 
knew  that  William  Curtiss  was  Bob  Deems — 
and  she  must  know  it — de  Grecque  would  soon 
know  it,  and  the  Booklovers  would  know  it. 

Solitude,  after  all,  was  not  what  he  wanted. 
He  needed  to  see  Rogan,  to  obtain  advice  from 
him,  to  warn  him  how  near  was  danger. 

It  was  not  in  the  fashion  of  one  pondering, 
one  seeking  solitude  for  the  clarification  of  the 
mental  processes,  that  he  walked  up  Irving  Place 
and  around  the  park.  It  was  at  a  rushing  walk 
that  approached  a  run. 

He  was  a  block  away,  crossing  Twenty-third 


106  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Street  cat-a-corner,  when  he  saw  a  woman 
emerge  from  the  door  of  the  bookshop.  Even 
at  that  distance,  and  in  the  gathering  gloom,  her 
lithe  walk  made  him  think  of  Lydia  Gryce.  So 
acute  was  the  notion  that  he  stood  on  the  curb 
and  watched  the  taxi  into  which  she  had  stepped 
swing  down  the  street  toward  him.  As  it  passed 
he  strained  his  eyes.  His  impression  was  more 
vivid.  He  could  make  out  not  a  single  feature 
but — he  seemed  to  feel  the  presence  of  Lydia 
Gryce  in  that  taxi. 

So,  then,  she  had  discovered  Rogan's  nom  de 
guerre  and  residence.  She  knew  that  Rogan  had 
not  died  in  Deems's  apartment.  And  as  he 
stared  after  the  machine  he  became  conscious  of 
cries  to  the  north  of  him.  The  fat  German 
woman,  whom  he  had  known  as  the  clerk  in  the 
bookshop,  had  run  out  upon  the  sidewalk.  She 
was  pointing  down  the  street,  toward  Deems, 
shrieking : 

"That  taxicab;  she  went  away  in  that  taxicab." 

At  break-neck  speed  he  dashed  up  the  street. 

People  were  gathering,  looking  curiously  at 
her;  in  the  distance  a  lumbering  policeman  ap- 
proached at  a  jog-trot.  Deems  ran  into  the 
store.  On  the  floor  stood  something  that  he  rec- 
ognised. 

Once  he  had  visited  the  Bureau  of  Combusti- 


BOMBS  107 

bles,  that  branch  of  the  police  department  that 
handled  the  bombs  formerly  deposited  by  Black- 
handers  in  tenements,  but  now  seemingly  distrib- 
uted by  sympathisers  of  Germany  in  places  more 
economically  important  than  the  dwellings  of  the 
poor.  It  was  a  bomb  that  stood  upon  the  floor. 

The  hysterical  woman  clerk  evidently  gathered 
her  senses.  For  the  policeman  entered  the  shop. 
She  had  managed  to  tell  him,  realising  that  the 
absence  of  the  person  who  had  left  the  bomb  here 
was  less  important  than  the  presence  of  that 
which  she  had  left. 

The  officer  was  a  competent  man.  The  bomb 
deposited  in  a  bucket  of  water,  he  telephoned  to 
Police  Headquarters.  Then  he  entered  the 
names  of  the  persons  who  had  crowded  into  the 
shop  in  his  note-book.  Then  he  dismissed  them. 

Deems  was  glad  to  leave.  The  woman  clerk 
was  too  upset  by  fright  to  recognise  him.  He 
was  just  as  well  pleased  that  the  officer  did  not 
know  that  he  was  a  friend  of  the  proprietor  of 
the  place.  It  might  have  entailed  Deems's  re- 
maining. And,  before  he  talked  on  any  subject 
to  the  police,  it  was  as  well  that  he  confer  with 
Rogan.  He  would  telephone  the  Secret  Serv- 
ice man  later. 

Meanwhile — there  were  one  or  two  little 
things  in  his  Irving  Place  room  that  he  would 


108  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

like  to  have.  If  Lydia  Gryce  knew  his  address, 
that  address  was  an  unsafe  place  for  him.  He 
had  known  that  before  he  left  his  room,  but  now 
— with  the  evidence  of  his  own  eyes  he  had  seen 
the  girl — at  least  he  thought  so — and  he  had  seen 
the  bomb  that  would  have  wrecked  the  building. 

There  was  no  longer  room  for  doubt.  She  had 
inspired  the  murder  of  Clancy.  How  she  could 
have  inspired  in  her  groom  such  devotion  that  the 

man  was  willing  to  sacrifice  his  own  life But 

the  man  had  been  a  German,  and  the  Germans 
were  insane.  It  had  been,  so  he  believed,  for  the 
Fatherland,  the  Fatherland  that  Lydia  Gryce 
preferred  to  serve,  rather  than  the  country  from 
which  she  sprang. 

Hurriedly  he  passed  around  the  park  and 
down  Irving  Place.  And  then,  a  block  away 
from  his  lodging-house,  he  reeled  to  the  curb. 
He  seized  a  lamp-post  to  regain  his  balance, 
while  he  stared  at  the  place  where  his  lodging- 
house  had  been.  For  it  existed  no  longer.  Its 
whole  front  had  been  dissipated  in  an  explosion 
that  shattered  windows  for  blocks  around.  And, 
as  nearly  as  Deems  could  tell,  the  explosion  had 
come  from  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor. 
His  room.  And  Lydia  Gryce  had  just  left  an- 
other bomb  in  Rogan's  shop. 

She  had  been  in  Deems's  room  earlier  this  eve- 


BOMBS  109 

ning.     She The  sidewalk  began  to  heave 

up  and  down,  like  the  surface  of  the  sea  after  a 
storm,  as  he  stared  at  the  smoking  ruins  of  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

TANGLED  THREADS 

ONE  looks  in  the  mirror  to  behold,  sometimes,  the 
real  image  of  oneself.  Lydia  Gryce,  elbows  on 
her  dressing-table,  and  chin  cupped  in  her  palms, 
beheld  the  semblance  of  a  charming  girl,  whose 
charm  was  abated  not  in  the  least  by  the  present 
gravity  of  her  expression.  She  was  not  vain,  but 
she  had  common  sense,  and  common  sense  en- 
abled her  to  recognise  the  fact  that  she  was  per- 
sonable. The  difference  between  vanity  and 
common  sense,  with  relation  to  one's  personal  ap- 
pearance, is  that  the  vain  person  stresses  beauty; 
while  the  sane  individual  appraises  it  for  its  ac- 
tual worth.  And  the  worth  of  physical  beauty, 
though  not  so  great  as  the  poets  profess  to  be- 
lieve, nevertheless  is  not  inconsiderable. 

Lydia,  looking  at  herself,  suddenly  coloured. 
In  the  mirror,  beside  her  own  face  had  appeared 
the  face  of  Bob  Deems.  This  was  one  of  those 
truthful  mirrors  that  reflect  the  soul  as  well  as 
the  body.  And  the  real  image  of  Lydia  Gryce 
was  not  complete  unless  there  was  something  of 

no 


TANGLED  THREADS  111 

Deems  in  it.  Petulantly  she  turned  the  mirror 
away.  To  be  mooning  like  a  love-sick  school- 
girl! She  started  as  a  servant  knocked  on  the 
door. 

"A — person — to  see  you,  Miss  Lydia.  He  is 
most  insistent." 

Something  in  the  servant's  tone  made  Lydia 
look  at  him  sharply. 

"Did  he  give  any  name,  Ferguson?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "He  looks  like  the 
sort  to  be  ashamed  of  any  name  he  might  have, 
Miss  Lydia.  He  looks  like  a  tramp.  I'd  have 
sent  him  away,  only  he  talked  so  queer-like ;  said 
if  you  didn't  want  to  see  him  to  tell  you  that  he'd 
just  been  down  to  Irving  Place  and  Lexington 
Avenue." 

Had  the  man-servant  been  more  acute  he 
would  have  noticed  the  sudden  alarm  in  the  girl's 
eyes. 

"I'll  be  right  down,"  she  told  him.  She 
looked  into  the  mirror  again  as  the  door  closed 
behind  Ferguson.  There  was  nothing  of  Deems 
in  the  reflection  that  she  saw  now;  only  the 
frightened  features  of  a  terrified  girl.  "Irving 
Place  and  Lexington  Avenue!"  So  Ferguson 
had  quoted  the  man  down-stairs.  And  then  as 
she  stared  at  her  reflection  the  mirrored  features 
smoothed  themselves.  She  was  complete  mistress 


112  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

of  herself  when  she  entered  the  little  reception- 
room  down-stairs. 

"You  wish  to  see  me?"  she  asked  coolly. 

"Yes,  Miss  Gryce."  There  was  something  of 
insolence  in  his  manner,  yet  there  was  also  some- 
thing ashamed;  it  was  as  though,  having  deter- 
mined on  a  certain  course,  the  man  hated  himself 
for  his  determination. 

Lydia  met  his  look  calmly.  After  all,  what- 
ever knowledge  the  man  thought  himself  pos- 
sessed of,  he  was  not  the  sort  of  person  of  whom 
she  cotfld  possibly  be  afraid.  Not  his  clothing 
alone,  though  the  lack  of  care  bestowed  on  it 
showed  him  to  be  one  without  personal  pride,  but 
the  weak  chin,  the  shifty  eyes,  the  tremulous  lips, 
all  proclaimed  him  one  to  whom  the  more  decent 
things  are  dead.  A  strong  man  may,  through 
circumstances,  wear  soiled  clothing,  but  the 
stains  are  not  those  acquired  in  debauch ;  only  the 
weak  man  goes  forth  in  garments  stained  with 
the  dregs  from  a  bar-room.  And  yet  the  rat, 
meanest  of  all  vermin,  will  on  occasion  fight.  It 
was  just  as  well  to  temporise  with  the  human  ro- 
dent before  her. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  asked. 

"I  guess  I  might  as  well,"  he  replied  with  a 
leer.  "I  certainly  never  thought  I'd  see  the  day 


TANGLED  THREADS  113 

when  old  man  Gryce's  daughter  would  invite  me 
to  have  a  chair." 

She  was  anything  in  the  world  but  a  snob; 
nevertheless  her  father  had  raised  himself  from 
poverty  to  wealth  and  power  by  his  own  efforts, 
and  that  there  should  be  in  the  tone  of  this  weak 
drunkard  a  sneer  for  her  father  angered  her. 
But  she  veiled  her  anger. 

"What  did  you  want  from  me?" 

"What  do  you  think  I  want?  What  do  you 
suppose  a  man  like  me  would  want  from  a  rich 
girl  like  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Money." 

His  discoloured  teeth  showed  in  a  smile.  "I 
might've  known  Steve  Gryce's  daughter  would 
be  businesslike.  Money!  You  said  it!  Kind 
of  a  joke  on  your  father,  who  fired  me  person- 
ally"— he  said  this  with  a  certain  pride  in  the 
recollection — "to  have  his  daughter  stake  me  for 
the  rest  of  my  life." 

"Wouldn't  it?"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "Sounds  as 
though  you  think  I'm  kidding.  Still,  if  I  were 
a  business  man,  which,  thank  God,  I'm  not,  I'd 
expect  to  show  my  wares  before  I'd  sold  them. 
I  don't  suppose  you  have  the  least  idea  of  what 
I  meant  by  the  message  I  sent  you  by  your  but- 
ler? Can't  even  guess,  can  you?" 


114  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Suppose  you  explain  for  me,"  she  suggested. 

"Fair  enough.  A  man  named  Johann  Lauber 
is  your  groom.  He  kills  a  reporter  named 
Clancy  down  in  the  Record  office.  Your 
father's  newspaper!  According  to  what  I  read, 
he  mistook  Clancy  for  another  Record  man 
named  Deems.  To-day,  this  very  evening,  you 
make  a  trip  to  where  young  Deems  is  living  on 
Irving  Place;  likewise  you  visit  a  bookshop  on 
Lexington  Avenue.  They  find  a  bomb  in  the 
bookshop.  They  don't  find  the  bomb  in 
Deems's  lodging-house,  because  it  explodes. 
They  just  know  it  was  there.  That  enough?" 

"Suppose  you  continue,"  she  said. 

"No  trouble  at  all,"  he  replied  impudently. 
"Your  groom  Lauber  tried  to  kill  Deems;  he 
didn't  succeed,  so  you  tried  it  yourself." 

"And  because  of  this  you  want  money  from 
me?" 

"Well,  I  used  to  be  a  newspaper  man.  'I 
know  that  the  newspapers  will  pay  for  news  just 
as  willingly  now  as  they  would  before  your 
father  fired  me  from  the  Record.  But  I'd  just 
as  lief  sell  to  you  as  to  a  paper.  It's  simply  a 
matter  of  price." 

"And  the  price  is " 

He  spread  his  hands  wide.  "My  cards  are  on 
the  table,  Miss  Gryce;  you  know  what  I  have. 


TANGLED  THREADS  115 

What's  the  electric  chair  mean  to  you?  Is  it 
worth  ten  thousand  dollars  to  keep  out  of  it?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Suppose  that  I  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about?"  she  said. 

His  weak  eyes,  rheumy,  glittered.  "You're  a 
good  player,  Miss  Gryce,  and  a  good  player 
knows  when  she's  lost.  But  sometimes  a  good 
player,  who  knows  that  she's  lost,  wants  to  be 
convinced  that  the  other  fellow  knows  it,  too. 
All  right;  I've  been  living  over  a  saloon  on 
Bleecker  Street.  A  German  saloon.  The  peo- 
ple that  run  it  know  that  I  used  to  be  a  news- 
paper man.  They  know  that  I  worked  on  the 
Record.  So  Lauber,  who  worked  for  you  and 
used  to  drop  in  there  occasionally,  was  pointed 
out  to  me.  That's  why,  seeing  him  help  a  girl 
into  the  saddle  one  day  in  Central  Park,  I  knew 
who  the  girl  was.  That's  why  I  was  kind  of  in- 
terested when  you  got  into  a  taxicab  at  Madison 
Square  and  drove  to  a  house  on  Irving  Place.  I 
was  interested  enough  to  go  back  there  later  on, 
and  also  to  the  bookshop  on  Lexington  Ave- 
nue where  you  went  after  you  visited  the  Irving 
Place  house." 

"You  could  prove,  of  course,  that  it  was  I  who 
rode  to  those  two  places?" 

"I  guess  I  could,"  he  told  her.  "I  drove  the 
taxi  you  rode  in.  Of  course,  a  girl  like  you 


116  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

wouldn't  notice  a  chauffeur,  but  a  cat  may  look 
at  a  king,  and  a  chauffeur  may  notice  a  girl,  even 
if  she  is  the  daughter  of  Stephen  Gryce." 

She  nodded  thoughtfully.  "But  why  were 
you  so  interested  in  what  I  did?"  she  asked. 

"Some  guys  are  born  lucky,"  he  grinned. 
"My  luck's  been  a  long  time  reaching  me,  but  I 
always  knew  it  would  come  sooner  or  later.  I 
wouldn't  have  gone  back  there  only  I  happened 
to  know  that  young  Deems  occasionally  dropped 
into  Graffe's  bookshop.  Once  in  a  while,  when 
driving  a  taxicab  hasn't  paid  very  well,  I  sell  a 
book  to  Graffe.  You  know,  until  your  father 
got  so  damned  high-flown  that  he  refused  liquor 
advertisements  and  wouldn't  keep  a  man  who 
drank  on  the  paper,  I  had  quite  a  collection  of 
books.  I  let  'em  go  now.  I  thought  that  it  was 
pretty  tough  luck  having  to  sell  them ;  that  only 
shows  how  little  a  man  knows  about  his  luck. 
For  if  I  hadn't  gone  into  Graffe's,  I  wouldn't 
have  seen  young  Deems  there.  He  doesn't  re- 
member me ;  I  don't  look  quite  as  spruce  as  I  did 
when  I  worked  on  the  Record.  Anyway,  I 
wasn't  there  very  long  after  he  joined  the  paper. 
But  I  know  him  all  right. 

"A  good  newspaper  man  doesn't  forget,  as 
long  as  he  lives,  how  to  put  two  and  two  together. 
I  leave  you  up-town  to-day.  Less  than  an  hour 


TANGLED  THREADS  117 

later  I  read  on  the  Times  bulletin  about  a  bomb 
explosion  on  Irving  Place  and  how  another  bomb 
was  left  in  Graffe's  book-store.  I  can't  make 
it,  right  off,  but  by  and  by  I  begin  to  think.  I 
take  a  trip  down  to  Irving  Place.  I  get  some 
dope  from  the  cop  there;  cops  are  always  friendly 
to  taxi  drivers,  you  know.  They  never  can  tell 
when  they'll  want  a  free  ride.  And  this  cop, 
gossiping,  says  that  the  landlady  has  told  about 
a  young  woman  paying  a  visit  to  the  room  of  one 
of  her  lodgers.  That  lodger,  according  to  the 
cop,  was  named  Curtiss ;  but  from  the  description 
the  cop  gave  me,  I  guess  Curtiss  would  answer 
if  you  called  him  Deems.  Then,  after  I'd  called 
up  the  Record  office,  and  found  out  that  Deems 
hadn't  been  to  work  in  some  time,  and  when  I 
find  out,  at  the  address  the  Record  telephone  girl 
gave  me,  that  Deems  hasn't  been  home  in  some 

time Well,  do  I  go  to  the  papers  or  don't 

I,  Miss  Gryce?" 

She  looked  at  him ;  before  the  contempt  in  her 
eyes  his  glance  wavered.  But  his  weak  mouth 
set  in  the  obstinacy  that  is  a  part,  sometimes,  of 
weakness. 

"What  I've  been  saying  to  you  wouldn't  do 
you  a  lot  of  good  if  I  said  it  to  a  jury,"  he  said. 

"Ten  thousand  dollars  is  a  lot  of  money,"  she 
told  him. 


118  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Ten  years  in  jail — you'd  get  that,  anyway, 
even  if  you  didn't  get  the  chair — is  a  long  time," 
he  reminded  her. 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "Granting 
that  there  is  something  in  what  you  have  told  me, 
how  do  I  know  that  you  won't  go  from  here  to 
the  police?"  she  asked. 

"You  don't  know;  you  only  hope;  that's  the 
trouble  with  getting  in  bad,  Miss  Gryce.  You 
haven't  any  choice  at  all;  you  just  have  to  trust 
me." 

"And  if  I  didn't?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  suppose  I'd 
go  to  see  your  father,"  he  told  her,  "before  I  went 
to  headquarters." 

She  nodded.  "Of  course  you  know  that  I 
haven't  any  such  sum  of  money  as  you  mention 
in  the  house." 

"I'd  take  a  check,"  he  said. 

"Wait  here,"  she  told  him. 

Five  minutes  later,  a  check  for  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  his  pocket,  Randolph  Fallon,  erstwhile 
newspaper  man,  and  taxi  chauffeur,  but  at  the 
moment  a  successful  blackmailer,  walked  down 
the  steps  of  the  Gryce  mansion.  He  was  so  en- 
grossed in  thoughts  of  the  future  that  he  did 
not  recognise  the  man  who  mounted  the  steps  as 
he  descended  them. 


TANGLED  THREADS  119 

The  servant  had  hardly  closed  the  door  upon 
Fallen,  when  he  opened  it  upon  Deems.  "Miss 
Gryce'll  see  you,  sir." 

In  the  same  room  in  which  she  had  just  given 
Fallon  her  check  Lydia  faced  the  man  who  had 
been  occupying  so  much  of  her  thought  of  late, 
the  man  whom  her  heart  told  her  to  love  but  her 
head  to  hate.  Somehow  or  other  one  does  not 
conceive  of  merry-souled  people  as  being  crim- 
inal. And  Lydia's  mental  picture  of  Deems 
never  lacked  twinkling  eyes  and  a  smile.  But 
there  was  no  smile  upon  the  lips  of  Deems  now, 
no  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"You've  brought  me  that  paper?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly;  wonderment  was 
in  his  eyes.  "Miss  Gryce,  I'm  labouring  under 
a  curious  obsession.  Perhaps  you  can  explain 
it  away." 

Her  eyes  invited  him  to  continue. 

"That  obsession,"  he  went  on,  "is  that  you 
have  had  that  paper  all  along." 

She  inclined  her  head.  "In  briefer  words,  I 
lie?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  phrase  it 
well,"  he  told  her.  Amazed  anger  came  into  his 
voice.  "Miss  Gryce,  a  servant  of  yours  tries  to 
kill  me.  You  encourage  me  in  the  belief  that 
the  Comte  de  Grecque  was  responsible  for  the 


120  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

attempt  upon  me.  You  sneered  at  my  pro- 
fessed loyalty  to  my  country.  To-day  you  went 
to  my  room.  Later  on  a  bomb  exploded  there. 
You  went  to  the  book-store  of  a  friend  of  mine; 
fortunately  there  was  no  explosion  there.  But  in 
my  room — it  is  simply  by  the  mercy  of  God  that 
harmless,  inoffensive  people  were  not  killed. 
Miss  Gryce,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that 
I  do  not  know  what  were  the  contents  of  that 
paper.  I  only  tell  you  this,  in  the  hope  that 
when  you  next  cause  an  attempt  to  be  made  upon 
my  life,  you  will  not  jeopardise  the  lives  of  other 
people." 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Deems.  You  evi- 
dently have  no  fear  for  yourself." 

He  stared  at  her.  "I  have  a  healthy  regard 
for  my  own  skin,"  he  told  her.  "But  that  I  have 
so  far,  luckily,  been  able  to  preserve.  I  feel  con- 
fident that  I  shall  be  able  to  protect  myself  in  the 
future." 

"From  me?" 

"From  you,"  he  said. 

"Would  it  be  useless  to  tell  you  that  you  are 
quite  mistaken  about  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  it  would  be,"  he  answered. 

"Then  why  have  you  come  here?"  she  asked. 

He  fought  against  the  fascination  that  she  had 
held  for  him  from  the  first  moment  when,  in  the 


TANGLED  THREADS  121 

gloom  of  his  apartment,  he  had  heard  her  voice. 
Her  voice  alone  had  struck  an  hitherto  unre- 
sponsive chord  upon  his  heart-strings ;  each  sight 
of  her  caused  new  chords  to  chime.  Grey-eyed, 
with  the  unwavering  glance  that,  when  it  comes 
from  beneath  a  broad  forehead,  seems  candid 
and  honest,  he  could  not  conceive  of  Lydia  Gryce 
as  being  capable  of  falsehood.  Yet  the  evidence 
was  convincing;  not  only  was  she  capable  of  un- 
truth, but  of  murder. 

Had  she  been  of  some  exotic  type,  he  would 
have  found  it  easier  to  give  credence  to  the  evi- 
dence he  held.  He  had  met  no  murderesses  in 
his  newspaper  career,  but  mentally  he  always  pic- 
tured them  as  being  flashing-eyed  creatures  who 
carried  with  them  the  subtle  suggestion  of  in- 
trigue. Lydia  Gryce  seemed  as  frank  as  a  sum- 
mer morning. 

"To  warn  you,"  he  told  her.  "I  do  not  fully 
know  the  reasons  for  your  activities.  But  I  do 
know  where  those  activities  will  lead  you,  Miss 
Gryce.  A  woman  was  executed  for  treason  in 
France  quite  recently." 

"For  treason?  You  tell  this  to  me,  Mr. 
Deems?" 

"We  always  seem  to  be  fencing,  don't  we?" 
he  said. 

"Then  why  not  come  out  into  the  open,"  she 


122  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

countered.  "You  speak  to  me  of  treason.  You 
dare  to  threaten  me  with  its  consequences.  I 
warned  you  some  time  ago  of  what  the  conse- 
quences of  disloyalty  might  be  to  you,  Mr. 
Deems." 

He  smiled.  "And  yet  I  never  guessed  that 
those  consequences  might  be  visited  upon  me  by 
you.  I  did  not  then  conceive  you  in  the  role  of 
a  placer  of  bombs." 

"I  had  not  conceived  of  myself  in  such  a 
role,"  she  told  him. 

There  was  something  incredible  in  her  non- 
chalance. "I  wonder,"  she  said,  "that  you  dare 
to  come  here  knowing  how  dangerous  I  am." 

"It's  because  I  wanted  you  to  explain." 

"And  yet  a  moment  ago  you  told  me  that  it 
would  be  useless  for  me  to  tell  you  that  you  are 
mistaken." 

"To  tell  me,  yes;  but  to  explain " 

"And  if  I  ask  you  to  explain?"  Fire  shone 
now  from  the  eyes  that  had  been  so  cool.  "You 
who  have  lied  to  me ;  who  pretended  that  the  man 
Rogan  was  dead;  that  he  had  been  all  the  time 
a  stranger  to  you !  You,  who  under  an  assumed 
name  have  hidden  away  from  your  old  associ- 
ates ;  who  have  been  conspiring  with  the  man  Ro- 
gan, who  calls  himself  Graffe  now,  his  real  name, 
against  your  own  country!" 


TANGLED  THREADS  123 

"You  know  that  Graff e  is  Rogan?" 

She  laughed.  "I  know  a  great  many  things, 
Mr.  Deems.  I  know  a  great  deal  of  what  you 
and  Rogan  and  others  have  been  doing.  When 
I  know  a  little  more  about  your  doings  I  shall 
cease  fencing,  Mr.  Deems.  In  the  meantime 
give  me  credit  for  being  as  well  able  to  take  care 
of  myself  as  you  seem  to  think  you  are.  And  I 
beg  of  you  not  to  waste  more  of  my  time  and 
your  own  in  silly  threats.  Blackmail  is  not  quite 
worthy,  even  of  a  traitor." 

"Neither  is  attempted  murder,"  he  said. 

Her  brows  grew  closer  together.  "Are  you 
really  serious  in  your  belief  that  I  left  a  bomb 
in  your  room?"  she  asked. 

"Will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honour  that 
you  did  not  do  so?"  he  countered. 

"Certainly." 

"Then  why  did  you  go  to  my  room?" 

"Because  I  was  a  fool,"  she  told  him.  "Be- 
cause I  had  some  faith  in  your  decency;  because 
I  thought  I  had  been  mistaken  in  you;  because 
I  thought  that  possibly  we  were  both  misled." 

Cautiously  he  weighed  his  next  words.  There 
was  the  matter  of  a  certain  pledge  made  to  Ro- 
gan that  stood  in  the  way  of  that  absolute  frank- 
ness that  her  scornful  tone  urged  upon  him.  "I 


124  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

might  perhaps  convince  you  that  those  thoughts 
were  right,"  he  said. 

Forgotten  for  the  moment  was  all  the  evidence 
against  her;  everything  that  his  own  eyes,  that 
the  mouth  of  Rogan  had  told  him,  he  was  pre- 
pared to  dismiss. 

"Convince  me !"  He  could  hardly  believe  that 
a  dimple  had  ever  been  in  the  cheek  of  her ;  that 
the  clear  voice  had  ever  sounded  mirthful.  "You 
are  not  as  careful  a  scoundrel  as  your  friend, 
Rogan,  Mr.  Deems.  I  wonder  that  under  his 
tuition  you  have  not  acquired  caution.  To  leave 
in  one's  room  the  written  evidence  of  one's  guilt!" 

He  smiled.  Then  his  smile  faded  as  he  re- 
membered again  his  pledge  to  Rogan. 

"That  written  evidence  is  the  reason  for  your 
distrust  of  me?" 

The  laugh  this  time  was  impatient.  "Either 
you  are  a  very  great  fool,  Mr.  Deems,  or  you 
think  that  I  am.  In  either  case  discussion  brings 
us  nowhere.  Neither  threat  of  blackmail  nor 
attempt  against  my  father  will  stop  me." 

"I  don't  seem  to  remember  having  mentioned 
your  father,  Miss  Gryce,"  he  said. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I'm  tired  of 
talking  with  you,  Mr.  Deems.  Have  you  any 
other  silly  accusations  that  you  care  to  make?" 


TANGLED  THREADS  125 

"None,"  he  said. 

She  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  she  had  been 
seated.  Like  a  whipped  schoolboy  Deems 
walked  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE 

ROGAN'S  face  was  grave.  "You  aren't  telling  me 
this  with  the  hope  that  I  will  pat  you  on  the  back, 
Deems?"  he  asked. 

Deems  shook  his  head.  "Not  quite  that;  but 
you  don't  blame  me,  either,  do  you?" 

"I  surely  do,"  replied  Rogan.  "This  isn't  a 
game  of  chess,  Deems.  It's  serious  business. 
It's  more  than  that — it's  the  life  of  America. 
That  sounds  pretty  biggity  and  up-stage,  but  I 
mean  it.  You  know  what  de  Grecque  and  Gryce 
are  trying  to  do  and  yet  you  let  a  pretty  face  be- 
wilder you.  You  didn't  by  any  chance  happen 
to  tell  her  that  you  were  in  the  Secret  Service, 
did  you?" 

Deems  flushed.     "I'm  not  an  ass,"  he  snapped. 

"You  bray  uncommonly  like  one,"  said  Ro- 
gan. "I  don't  mind  a  man  falling  for  a  pretty 
doll;  I  fall  for  them  myself  outside  of  business 
hours.  But  if  you  watch  me  closely,  keeping 
your  eyes  glued  to  what  a  college  professor  might 
call  my  peregrinations,  you'll  notice  that  my  busi- 

126 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  137 

ness  hours  take  twenty-four  hours  a  day  these 
times.  A  man  who  gives  up  government  secrets 
to  anybody  is  playing  with  fire,  and  that  fire  goes 
by  the  name  of  treason." 

"I  didn't  tell  her  anything,"  Deems  defended, 
himself. 

Rogan  sneered.  "You  just  asked  her  why  she 
tried  to  blow  you  to  kingdom-come;  that's  all. 
I  suppose  you  expected  her  to  reply  that  inside 
the  bomb  there  was  a  little  note — 'Yours  with 
love' — something  like  that,  eh?" 

Deems's  flush  became  deeper.  "I  went  to  her 
because  I'm  quite  certain  that  she  didn't  plant 
those  bombs." 

"You  were  pretty  sure  of  it  when  we  talked  it 
over  a  little  while  ago,"  jeered  Rogan. 

Deems  lowered  his  eyes;  he  was  furiously 
ashamed  of  the  red  upon  his  cheeks.  "If  you 
would  talk  with  her,  Rogan,  you'd  change  your 
mind  about  her." 

Rogan  eyed  the  younger  man ;  into  his  glance 
crept  sympathy.  "You're  not  a  fool,  Deems. 
In  fact,  you're  a  mighty  bright  youngster. 
That's  why  I  have  patience  with  you.  Besides, 
this  war  is  changing  things  a  whole  lot.  A  lot 
of  people  that  six  months  ago,  or  six  weeks  ago 
even,  would  have  died  before  doing  anything 
dishonourable,  have  become  perverted  in  their 


128  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

views.  They've  let  an  idea,  an  insane,  dishon- 
ourable idea,  get  the  better  of  them.  This  coun- 
try has  grown  to  greatness  because  we  stuck  to 
the  correct  principle:  let  the  majority  rule.  And 
the  majority  has  been  right  so  far.  But  now,  in 
the  biggest  crisis  that  the  country  has  ever  faced, 
a  comparatively  few  people  have  become  obsessed 
with  the  idea  that  the  majority  is  wrong.  The 
last  ten  years  seem  to  have  bred  a  gang  of  pro- 
fessional 'antis.'  Your  girl  and  her  father  belong 
to  this  group.  I  don't  say  that  either  of  them 
are  consciously  pro-German;  but  any  one  who  is 
anti-war  just  now  is  pro-German,  whether  he 
knows  it  or  not.  I  don't  think  I  need  to  talk  to 
Miss  Gryce.  I  realise  that  you  need  more  evi- 
dence than  I.  That's  natural;  you're  in  love 
with  her.  But  even  you  must  be  convinced 


now." 


Deems  shook  his  head.     Rogan  stared  at  him. 

"But  she  admitted  that  she'd  been  to  your 
room.  And  didn't  Minna  see  her  leave  the 
bomb  here?" 

"Minna  saw  the  bomb  on  the  floor  after  she 
had  left,"  corrected  Deems.  "According  to 
what  Minna  says,  she  was  busy  with  some  books 
when  a  young  woman  entered  and  asked  for  Mr. 
Graffe.  When  Minna  told  her  that  you  were 
out,  the  young  woman  left.  Then  Minna  saw 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  129 

the  thing  on  the  floor.  She  didn't  see  Miss 
Gryce  put  it  there." 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  demanded  Re- 
gan. 

Deems's  jaw  set  stubbornly.  "There  are  other 
people  just  as  anxious  as  Miss  Gryce  could  pos- 
sibly be  to  read  our  obituaries.  Isn't  it  quite  pos- 
sible that  de  Grecque  and  the  Booklovers'  Club 
tumbled  to  me  this  afternoon?  And  they  aren't 
the  kind  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  their  feet. 
Minna  hasn't  the  best  eyes  in  the  world.  Some 
one  else  might  have  slipped  in  and  left  the 
bomb." 

"Yes,  and  Hughes  might  be  President — but  he 
isn't,"  jeered  Rogan.  "As  for  Minna's  eyes — 
she  got  the  number  of  the  taxi  in  which  the  girl 
drove  away.  Thank  God  she  didn't  tell  it  to  the 
policeman.  She  got  her  nerve  back  before  she 
had  time  to  do  that." 

Deems  looked  curiously  at  the  Secret  Service 
man.  "Where'd  have  been  the  harm  in  her  tell- 
ing?" 

"You  haven't  seen  any  advertisements  in  the 
newspapers  telling  my  business,  have  you?"  said 
Rogan  sarcastically.  "This  is  my  own  little  af- 
fair. I  hardly  care  to  advertise  that  there  are 
reasons  why  pro-Germans  should  wish  to  put 
poor  old  Heinrich  Graffe  out  of  business." 


130 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"What  did  you  tell  the  police?"  asked  Deems. 

"That  I  couldn't  understand  the  reason  for 
the  bomb  being  placed  there.  But  I  gave  them 
the  name  of  a  young  German  whom  I  happen 
to  know  has  been  in  Germany  three  months.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  the  police  get  the  idea  that 
I've  been  a  bit  of  a  rake  in  my  day.  I  think  they 
imagine  that  the  young  lady  despaired  of  drag- 
ging me  to  the  altar.  They'll  be  a  month  tracing 
her  from  address  to  address,  and  when  they've 
decided  I'm  a  liar  I'll  be  able  to  tell  them  the 
truth!" 

"And  in  the  meantime?  If  it  was  Lydia 
Gryce  who  tried  to  kill  us  both,  why  won't  de 
Grecque  and  his  gang  know  that  Graife  is  Re- 
gan, and  that  Curtiss  is  Deems?" 

Rogan's  eyes  grew  puzzled.  "That's  one  of 
the  chances  we  take,  young  feller,"  he  said. 
"Gryce  is  with  de  Grecque;  the  girl  is  in  with 
her  father ;  we  know  all  that.  But  there  is  some- 
thing else  to  it.  They  don't  work  together,  for 
some  reason  or  other.  And  when  I  find  that  rea- 
son I  think  I'll  have  ended  my  work.  For  a 
while,  at  any  rate." 

"And  you  have  no  idea  what  that  reason  is?" 
questioned  Deems. 

Rogan  shook  his  head.  "I  was  beginning  to 
think  that  maybe  the  girl  was  working  against 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  131 

her  father — but  at  the  same  time  trying  to  pro- 
tect him.  But — this  bomb  matter  of  to-day " 

"What  made  you  think  that?"  asked  Deems 
quickly.  He  was  suddenly  hopeful.  Lydia 
Gryce,  thinking  him  dishonest,  traitorous,  might 
very  well  have  justified  herself  in  her  refusal  to 
explain  too  much  to  Deems.  She  would  be  in- 
sane to  trust  the  man  whom  she  thought  guilty 
of  treason.  And  Rogan's  utterance,  if  it  were 
based  on  reason,  would  explain  all  of  the  activi- 
ties of  the  girl. 

"Oh,  nothing  that  matters  now,"  said  Rogan. 
"A  lot  of  little  things — of  course,  it  wasn't  sane, 
that  feeling  of  mine ;  there  was  too  much  against 
her.  But — you  kinda  influenced  me,  young  fel- 
ler. I  tried  to  look  at  the  matter  from  every  an- 
gle. But  this  bomb-matter — that  settles  it." 

"But  does  it?"  insisted  Deems. 

Rogan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "We  know 
she  came  here;  we  know  what  Minna  says." 

"What  was  the  number  of  the  taxi?"  asked 
Deems. 

"Why?" 

"Her  chauffeur  might  have  something  to  say." 

"What  difference  would  it  make?"  asked  Ro- 
gan. 

Deems  coloured  again.  "It  would  make  a  lot 
of  difference  to  me.  But  beside  that — if  she  is 


132  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

really  with  us,  even  though  trying  to  protect  her 
father — and,  Rogan,  it  isn't  common  sense  to 
think  anything  else  than  that  she's  at  heart  with 
us,  even  if  she  doesn't  know  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  de  Grecque  and  his  gang  would  be 
on  our  necks  by  now.  The  girl  might  be  work- 
ing from  a  different  angle,  but — you  and  I  are 
dangerous  to  de  Grecque.  And  so  to  Gryce. 
Any  little  differences  of  policy  would  be 
smoothed  over  by  the  vital  danger  that  we  con- 
stitute." 

"Something  in  that,"  admitted  Rogan.  "And 
the  taxi-man?" 

"Would  know  whether  or  not  she  carried  any- 
thing in  here — and  to  my  room.  I'm  going  to 
look  him  up."  He  rose;  his  jaw  set  firmly. 

Rogan  nodded  indifferently.  "Can't  do  any 
harm.  And  meantime — I'll  be  looking  up  some- 
thing else." 

"What?" 

"I'm  going  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the 
Booklovers'  Club.  They  want  a  verbal  report 
on  you.  Shake  hands,  son.  It  may  be  your  last 
chance." 

His  voice  and  manner  were  nonchalant,  but 
his  eyes  were  grave.  Deems  felt  a  certain  reluc- 
tance to  leave  the  Secret  Service  man. 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  133 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  he  asked. 

Rogan  laughed.  "I'm  not  sure  how  safe  this 
Graffe  alibi  is  going  to  be.  I  fooled  the  police, 
but — de  Grecque  and  his  gang  are  different.  I'm 
not  even  sure  that  de  Grecque  won't  recognise 
me  as  Rogan.  But — I  have  my  summons;  I 
can't  ignore  it.  They'll  know  about  the  bomb 
business — the  papers  have  printed  it.  But — it's 
all  in  a  lifetime.  And  if  my  lifetime  isn't  long 
— you'll  know  where  to  take  what  information 
you  have.  It  isn't  evidence,  but — it  may  help. 
And  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  Irving  Place  at  all. 
You'd  have  to  pick  your  baggage  up  with  a  dust- 
pan, anyway,"  he  grinned.  "And  the  police  will 
be  interested  in  Mr.  William  Curtiss." 

There  was  dismissal  in  his  tones.  There  was 
nothing  sentimental  about  Rogan.  There  was 
much  that  Deems  would  have  liked  to  say,  but  he 
couldn't  find  words  wherewith  to  express  him- 
self. If  Rogan  did  not  reappear  at  his  book- 
shop, then  Rogan  would  be  dead,  and  that's  all 
there  was  to  it.  Both  of  them  knew  it,  but  be- 
yond his  statement  that  it  might  be  Deems's  last 
chance  to  shake  hands,  Rogan  made  no  further 
reference  to  his  danger.  They  shook  hands,  and 
Deems  left  the  bookshop. 

Ordinarily,  it  would  be  impossible  for  a  pri- 
vate citizen  to  obtain  the  name  and  address  of  a 


134  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

chauffeur  late  at  night  without  the  gravest  rea- 
sons. But  a  newspaper  man  has  many  priv- 
ileges. And  although  the  Record  knew  that 
Deems  had  disappeared  without  notifying  his 
employers,  the  Record  had  not  blazoned  the  fact 
to  the  world.  There  was  no  reason  why  it 
should. 

So  that  Deems  was  quite  safe  in  telephoning 
Sergeant  Moriarity. 

"What's  the  name  of  the  owner  of  license  num- 
ber 1040-967,  Sarge?"  he  asked. 

"What's  the  matter,  me  lad?    Run  over  ye?" 

Deems  laughed.  "On  a  story,  Sarge.  Chas- 
ing a  man  through  a  building.  Left  my  taxi  out- 
side. Got  back  two  hours  later  and  he  was 
gone." 

"I  suppose  it  made  him  sick  watching  the  me- 
tre go  up  wid  no  chance  of  collectin',"  chuckled 
the  sergeant.  "Are  ye  afraid  that  he'll  be  down 
to  the  'house'  askin'  us  to  locate  a  handsome 
young  scoundrel  what  bilked  him  of  his  fare?" 

"I  want  to  beat  him  to  it.  I'd  like  to  pay 
him,"  replied  Deems. 

"Fair  enough — and  rare  enough,"  commented 
the  officer.  "Hold  the  wire  a  minute,  lad,  and 
I'll  look  it  up." 

A  moment  later  and  Deems  was  bound  for 
Bleecker  Street.  The  number  the  complacent 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  135 

sergeant  had  given  him  was  easily  found.  And 
the  bartender  of  the  saloon  that  was  the  ground 
floor  office  of  the  Raines-Law  hotel  admitted  that 
one  Randolph  Fallen  resided  there. 

"But  I  don't  think  he's  fit  to  see  any  one  now, 
sir."  The  "sir"  was  a  tribute  to  the  bill  that 
Deems  slid  into  his  hand.  "What's  he  done? 
Run  over  somebody?" 

Deems  shook  his  head.  "No;  just  a  matter  of 
business." 

The  bartender  looked  impressed.  "Then  he 
ain't  been  gettin'  rid  of  hot  air,  then,  with  his  talk 
to-night  of  big  money?" 

"I  don't  know;  what  did  he  say?"  asked 
Deems. 

"Damn  little;  but  he  talked  a  lot.  Sold  his 
taxi — fact !  Got  three-hundred  bucks  for  it,  and 
started  blowin'  in  the  wad.  I  thought  he  was 
crazy  and  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  gave  me  the 
laugh.  Said  he  was  through  workin'.  Said  he 
was  rich.  I  thought  he'd  been  drinking,  but  he 
didn't  act  that  way.  Was  cold  sober,  too,  when 
he  sold  his  flivver." 

"I  take  it  that  he  isn't  sober  now,  then?"  said 
Deems. 

"You  take  it  correct,"  grinned  the  bartender. 
"He's  lighted  up  like  Sunday  in  the  park.  I 


136 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

shooed  him  upstairs  an  hour  ago.  I  don't  think 
he's  able  to  talk." 

"I'd  like  to  try  him,"  said  Deems. 

"Number  24,"  said  the  bartender.  "Run 
along  up  there.  His  door  ain't  locked.  No 
need  for  it ;  I  got  most  of  his  roll  in  the  safe  down 
here.  Don't  want  a  regular  customer  robbed. 
Not  when  he's  just  got  rich  and  may  be  able  to 
spend,"  he  grinned. 

Deems  returned  the  grin  with  one  of  his  own 
heart-warming  smiles,  and  the  bartender's  lin- 
gering doubts  vanished.  He  graciously  accom- 
panied Deems  to  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stairs. 
"I'd  like  to  go  up  with  you,"  he  said,  "only  these 
burglars  down  here'd  rob  the  place.  If  he  ain't 
able  to  talk  holler  to  me,  and  I'll  lend  you  a 
bung-starter." 

But  the  bung-starter  wasn't  necessary.  Ran- 
dolph Fallon  had  become  degenerate,  sodden. 
But  to-night  his  brain  seethed  with  excitement, 
and  a  seething  brain  does  not  react  the  same  al- 
ways, to  alcohol.  Last  night,  one-half  of  what 
he  had  drunk  to-night  would  have  rendered  him 
unconscious ;  to-night,  though  indubitably  drunk, 
he  was  fairly  rational  and  quite  awake. 

"I'm  from  the  Record,  Mr.  Fallon,"  said 
Deems. 

Fallon  stared  at  him.     Liquor  had  glazed  his 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  137 

eyes,  and  he  did  not  recognise  his  visitor.  But 
fear  sharpened  his  liquor-dulled  wits. 

"What  you  want  with  me?"  he  growled. 

Deems  stared  at  the  man  curiously.  The  name 
of  Randolph  Fallon  had  sounded  vaguely  famil- 
iar to  him.  Now  as  he  looked  upon  the  wreck 
of  what  had  once  been  a  man,  he  recognised  the 
taxi-man. 

"Want  with  you  ?  That  depends,  Mr.  Fallon. 
You  used  to  be  on  the  Record,  eh,  Mr.  Fallon'?" 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  snapped  Fallon. 

"Nothing  much,  except — you  know  how  much 
the  Record  will  spend  for  news,  if  the  news  is 
important." 

"Well?"  Fallen's  tones  were  not  encourag- 
ing. 

"The  Record  wants  to  know  something  about 
the  passenger  you  carried  to-day,"  said  Deems, 
gently. 

"What  passenger?  How  can  I  remember  any 
partic'lar  person?" 

"Oh,  but  you'd  remember  this  person,"  said 
Deems.  "A  girl.  You  took  her  to  Graffe's 
book-store  on  Lexington  Avenue.  Also  to  a 
lodging-house  on  Irving  Place." 

"How  do  you  know  that  I  did?"  demanded 
Fallon.  He  was  suddenly  cold  sober. 

"She  says  so,"  replied  Deems. 


138  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Well,  where  do  I  come  in,  then?"  asked  the 
former  newspaper  man. 

"We  want  to  know  if  she  carried  anything  into 
either  of  those  places.  A  bomb,  for  instance?" 

Fallon  shook  his  head.  "Cer'n'ly  not.  What 
do  you  take  me  for?  Wouldn't  I  have  gone 
straight  to  headquarters  if  I'd  seen  her  do  any- 
thing like  that?" 

"Not  if  she  paid  you  not  to,"  hinted  Deems. 

"Who  says  she  paid  me?"  cried  Fallon. 

"I  understand  that  youVe  sold  your  car  and 
state  that  you've  become  rich,"  insinuated  Deems. 
"Do  you  mind  telling  me  where  you  got  your 
money?" 

Into  Fallon's  eyes  came  black  despair.  "Why 
should  I?"  he  whimpered.  The  surly  fight  had 
gone  out  of  him. 

"Because  the  Record  will  pay  for  news,  while 
the  police  will  not." 

"How  much?"  asked  the  blackmailer.  "I 
oughta  known  better.  I  oughta  got  cash  from 
her.  What  good  is  her  check  now?  I  mighta 
known  that  I  was  born  unlucky.  I  never  did 
have  a  chance  in  my  life  that  bum  luck  didn't 
queer  it." 

"Then  she  gave  you  a  check?  And  she  did 
carry  something  into  Graff e's  shop  ?" 

"And  into  the  other  place,  too.    The  place  that 


INCRIMINATING  EVIDENCE  139 

young  Deems "     Recognition  stood  in  his 

eyes — "You're  Deems.  Oh,  my  God!  I  didn't 
know  what  she  was  doing.  I  only  guessed  it 
afterward.  How  could  I  tell  that  she  had  a 
bomb  in  her  hand-bag?  And  I  haven't  cashed 
her  check,  either.  I  never  intended  to  cash  it. 
I  only  took  it — I  intended  to  show  it  to  the  po- 
lice as  evidence  against  her — but  I  got  to  drink- 
ing, and — they  can't  do  anything  to  me — I  got 
the  check — here  it  is — they  can't  do  a  thing  to 
me — I  was  getting  the  goods  on  her,  making  her 
confess,  intending  to  sell  it  to  a  newspaper  and 
then  tell  the  police — and  they  can't  do  anything 
to  me,  can  they?" 

His  voice  rose  to  a  frightened  scream,  but 
Deems  hardly  heard  him.  He  was  looking  at 
the  check.  If  Lydia  Gryce  had  paid  this  sod- 
den wreck  ten  thousand  dollars  to  keep  him  quiet, 
then — why — for  the  first  time  her  offence,  in  all 
its  enormity,  came  to  him.  She  had  tried  to  com- 
mit murder!  She  had  tried  to  murder  him, 
Deems,  the  man  who — Fallon  stared  at  him,  his 
mouth  open.  There  wasn't  any  reason  why  a 
newspaper  man  should  laugh  himself  sick  be- 
cause a  woman  had  attempted  to  kill  him.  He 
did  not  know  that  Deems  was  laughing  at  the 
death  of  hope  within  himself.  It  was  better  to 
laugh  than  to  cry.  What  a  prince  of  patience 


140 


Rogan  was !  Well,  he  would  not  try  the  Rogan 
patience  any  longer.  He  would  do  his  best  to 
bring  to  justice  all  who  conspired  against  the 
country,  even  though  among  the  number  was 
the  girl  whom  he  had  fatuously  thought  he  loved. 
Thought  that  he  loved!  It  was  the  mockery  of 
the  gods  that  now,  in  the  moment  when  his  last 
hope  had  vanished,  he  should  know  that  he  loved 
her! 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

LYDIA  TRAPPED 

THERE  were  circles  under  Gryce's  eyes.  His 
broad  nostrils,  that  could  quiver  over  such  mat- 
ters as  the  aroma  of  a  cigar,  the  fragrance  of  a 
well-laden  table,  twitched  now  from  nervousness. 
The  wide  mouth  was  set  harshly,  and  his  eyes 
were  fretful. 

"I  warn  you,  Lydia,"  he  said,  "that  you  are 
reaching  the  limits  of  patience." 

"I  might  say  the  same  thing  to  you,  Father/' 
she  retorted. 

"And  cease  to  be  my  well-bred  daughter,"  he 
told  her. 

"The  truth  not  being  well-bred,  you  mean?" 

"Insolence,  I  meant,  Lydia.  Since  when  has 
the  daughter  been  set  above  the  father?  Since 
when  do  children  sit  in  judgment  upon  their  par- 
ents?" 

"Right  never  ceases  to  sit  in  judgment  upon 
wrong,  Father." 

He  hurled  his  book  from  him.  "Lydia,  I  am 
a  busy  man.  I  have  not  only  my  own  business 

141 


142 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

affairs  to  administer,  but  I  play,  if  I  may  say 
so,  a  most  important  part  in  greater  matters.  I 
have  managed  to  achieve  success;  men  pay  heed 
to  what  I  say.  And  yet  my  daughter  dares  to 
criticise.  Criticise?  Scold  is  the  word.  I  can 
not  even  have  a  peaceful  hour  with  a  book.  What 
has  happened  to  you,  Lydia?  You  never  used 
to  talk  like  a  priggish  professor.  'Right  never 
ceases  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  wrong.'  My 
God,  Lydia,  are  you  thinking  of  taking  a  pul- 
pit?" 

"Even  that,  Father,  if  I  thought  I  could  drive 
from  the  minds  of  people  the  ideas  that  you 
try  to  instill  in  them."  *• 

He  glared  at  her.  "You  can't  even  frame  a 
sentence  that  doesn't  sound  like  the  heroine  of  a 
Third  Avenue  melodrama."  His  voice  suddenly 
lowered.  It  became  beseeching,  pleading.  "Lis- 
ten, little  girl;  try  to  get  rid  of  that  notion 
that  I'm  not  pro- American.  Open  your  eyes." 

"Open  your  eyes!"  she  cried.  "They  are 
blind;  blind  to  everything  that  is  vital." 

"Because,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five,  after  a  fairly 
ripe  experience,  I  do  not  agree  with  my  daugh- 
ter, who  is  somewhat  less  than  twenty-five?" 

"Because  you  do  not  agree  with  the  President; 
with  the  best  thought  of  the  nation,"  she  said. 

"The  best  thought  being  exemplified  by  young 


LYDIA  TRAPPED  143 

girls  like  yourself,  driven  insane  by  years  of  read- 
ing of  slaughter  in  Europe,  until  you  have  come 
to  think  that  slaughter  is  the  natural,  the  inev- 
itable thing.  You  mention  the  President;  after 
all,  he  simply  follows  the  will  of  the  people.  He 
does  not  profess  to  do  more.  And  can  he  know 
better  than  I  the  will  of  the  people?  Are  his 
sources  of  information  any  greater?  I  doubt 
it." 

"He  gets  his  information  from  honest  men," 
she  said. 

"And  I?" 

"From  traitors,"  she  blazed. 

Her  father  gazed  at  her.  "Lydia,  I  have 
borne  with  much  from  you.  I  wonder  if  I  have 
not  borne  with  too  much.  Patience  ceases  to  be 
a  virtue  after  a  while.  I  have  told  you  that  when 
you  adduced  proof  concerning  Senator  Ran- 
dall- 

"Or  de  Grecque,"  she  interrupted. 

"Or  de  Grecque,"  he  echoed. 

"You  will  act  upon  that  proof?"  she  ques- 
tioned. 

"You  know  that  I  will." 

She  nodded.  "I  am  quite  sure  of  that.  You 
are — it  does  sound  melodramatic,  the  way  I've 
been  speaking,  Father,  but — I've  been  doing 


144  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

melodramatic  things.  You  attended  a  meeting 
of  the  Booklovers'  Club  to-night,  Father?" 

"Yes." 

"You  made  a  speech?" 

"Yes.  Is  there  anything  criminal  in  that, 
Lydia?  Is  there  even  anything  involving  moral 
turpitude  in  the  fact  that  I  delivered  that 
speech?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Please  don't  be  sarcas- 
tic, Father.  There  was  nothing  wrong  with 
what  you  said,  perhaps,  although  I  do  not  think 
that  talking  of  negotiations  with  Germany  is 
quite  patriotic  when  we  are  at  war  with  her." 

"Our  notions  of  patriotism  differ,  Lydia.  But 
go  on." 

"The  Comte  de  Grecque  was  there." 

"Yes.  You  are  well  informed,  Lydia.  But 
I  suppose  some  one  of  the  Record  staff " 

"No.  I  heard  your  speech,  Father.  I  heard 
the  other  men  talk,  too.  I  heard  all  of  them, 
pro-Germans  and  out-and-out  traitors,  all." 

Her  father's  eyebrows  lifted.  "Yet  there 
were  newspaper  men  present — my  own  report- 
ers— and  I  heard  no  such  comment." 

"You  will  see  it  in  the  other  papers  in  the 
morning,  Father.  They  made  no  comment 
there.  Why  should  they?  They  wanted  to 


LYDIA  TRAPPED  145 

know  how  far  the  members  of  that  club  would 
care  to  go." 

He  laughed.  "Well,  they  found  out.  There 
was  not  a  treasonable  word  uttered.  There  was 
a  resolution  passed,  commending  Senator  Ran- 
dall for  his  efforts  for  peace,  and  another  reso- 
lution pledging  the  support  of  the  club  to  the 
Government." 

"With  the  joker  in  the  end,"  she  said.  "A 
request  to  the  President  that  he  attempt  further 
negotiation  with  Germany." 

"Exactly  as  I  advocated  in  my  speech,"  he 
said  complacently.  "We  are  at  war  with  the 
German  Government,  not  the  German  people. 
I  hoped  that  the  President  would  recognise  this 
fact,  and  would  endeavour  so  to  negotiate  with 
the  German  Government  that  its  people  would 
recognise  the  fact,  and " 

"I  heard  you,"  she  interrupted. 

"But  you  were  not  there,  Lydia." 

"I  was  in  a  room  up-stairs,  Father;  you  asked 
for  evidence  against  the  Comte  de  Grecque  and 
Randall.  I  have  no  evidence  against  Randall 
as  yet.  It  may  be  that  I  shall  never  get  any 
against  him.  He  is  clever,  and  he  cares  for  his 
safety.  He  will  be  beaten  next  fall,  but  whether 
or  not  we  can  land  him  in  jail " 

Gryce's  frown  stopped  her.     "You  were  in  a 


146  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

room  up-stairs?  But  the  Booklovers'  banquet 
was  in  a  restaurant  building.  What  were  you 
doing  up-stairs,  Lydia." 

"Listening,  Father.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the 
dictaphone?" 

His  hands  dropped  upon  his  stout  thighs.  His 
jaw  dropped.  "You!  Up-stairs!  A  dicta- 
phone! Lydia,  are  you  insane?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  will  not  think  me 
so  when  I  have  finished,  Father." 

"Then  hurry  up  and  finish,"  he  cried. 

"I  heard  your  speeches;  I  heard  the  other 
speeches ;  I  heard  the  resolutions  and  the  applause 
and  all  the  sickening  rest  of  it.  And  then — the 
Comte  de  Grecque  did  not  leave  with  you,  Father. 
No;  he  was  one  of  the  honoured  guests  who  re- 
mained behind.  Let  me  tell  you  why.  Because 
he  is  the  lowest  traitor  of  them  all,  Father. 
France  has  honoured  him,  has  enriched  him,  but 
— the  taint  of  German  birth  is  his." 

"Lydia,  you  are  insane,"  said  Gryce.  "De 
Grecque  was  born  in " 

"Germany,"  she  stated.  "Oh,  it  is  not  known, 
not  even  in  France." 

"Not  known;  when  his  title  is " 

"Not  his,  Father!  If  I  should  tell  you  that 
the  real  Comte  de  Grecque  is  in  a  German 
prison " 


LYDIA  TRAPPED  147 

"Lydia,  my  dear " 

"Incredible,  I  know.  But  wait.  The  de 
Grecques  are  an  old,  but  not  well-known  fam- 
ily. The  Comte  de  Grecque  joined  the  army  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  war.  He  was  wounded  and 
invalided,  and  later  sent  to  this  country  on  diplo- 
matic service.  At  least,  the  French  Government 
thought  that  it  sent  de  Grecque.  But  the  real 
de  Grecque  was  a  German  prisoner.  The  de 
Grecque  we  know  is  a  German  officer.  He  wore 
the  Comte  de  Grecque's  uniform  when  he  was 
picked  up  on  the  battlefield.  Also,  he  was 
wounded,  and  the  real  de  Grecque  had  been  seen 
to  fall  in  a  charge.  A  long  chance,  yes.  But — 
there  were  plenty  of  Germans  who  would  take 
such  a  chance.  This  man  took  it;  he  was  not 
discovered.  None  of  the  real  de  Grecque's  regi- 
ment were  in  the  military  hospital  where  he  was 
taken — the  Germans  have  done  enough  things 
like  this,  Father.  It  is  not  incredible  even.  And 
he  used  what  treacherous  influence  he  could  ex- 
ert to  be  sent  abroad.  The  chance  of  discovery 
was  slight  over  here." 

"And  yet  you  discovered  this — mare's  nest?" 
Gryce's  voice  was  sneeringly  incredulous.  "May 
I  ask  how?" 

"You  may  ask,  Father,  but  I  can  not  answer. 
But  believe  me." 


148  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Believe  you?  You  might  as  well  ask  me  to 
believe  that  the  earth  is  flat." 

She  smiled.  "Wait.  You  left  the  banquet 
to-night.  De  Grecque  remained  behind.  So  did 
I,  in  an  up-stairs  room.  And  I  heard — Father, 
can't  you  understand?  The  German  plight  is 
desperate  now  that  we  have  entered  the  war. 
But  if  we  remain  passive,  lethargic,  Germany 
may  win.  If  we  refuse  to  send  troops 
abroad " 

"As  we  will,  if  the  papers  I  control  have  any 
power  at  all,"  he  cried. 

"I  have  not  finished  yet,"  she  reminded  him. 

"Go  on  with  your  dream,  Lydia." 

She  flushed.  "If  you  could  have  heard  them 
talk.  It  is  owned  by  Germans,  the  Royal  Res- 
taurant." 

"Which  is  why  they  permitted  you  to  place  a 
dictaphone  in  one  of  the  rooms,  eh?" 

"You  don't  believe  me?"  she  asked. 

"Believe  you?  Lydia,  I  thought  you  were  in- 
sane a  while  ago.  Now " 

"If  I  tell  you  that  one  of  the  waiters  in  the 
Royal  is  an  Alsatian — though  his  employers  do 
not  know  that  he  is  a  loyal  Frenchman " 

"Lydia,  you  cant  be  insane."  Against  his 
will  Gryce  was  yielding  to  her  argument. 

"Insane?    Father,  after  you  left,  de  Grecque 


LYDIA  TRAPPED  149 

and  others  held  a  private  meeting.  The  proposed 
draft  legislation  was  discussed.  They  laughed  at 
you.  They  said  you  were  completely  under  their 
influence.  And  de  Grecque  spoke  of  a  paper 
that  you  had  signed." 

"A  paper?"  Gryce  shook  his  head.  "I  know 
of  no  paper  that  I  have  signed." 

"No?"  The  girl  lowered  her  eyes;  a  tinge  of 
something  that  might  have  been  contempt  showed 
in  them.  "It  does  not  matter.  But  de  Grecque 
said  that  if  you  wavered  he  could  show  that 
paper,  that  it  would  compel  you  to  stick  with 
them." 

"De  Grecque  said  that?"  Gryce  seemed  in- 
credulous. 

This  time  the  girl  looked  at  him.  The  con- 
tempt left  her  eyes ;  puzzlement  took  its  place. 

"I  heard  him,"  she  said.  "And  de  Grecque 
said  that  he  had  talked  with  you  of  the  folly  of 
war ;  that  he  had  approached  you  from  the  stand- 
point of  high  morality;  that  he  had  appealed  to 
your  reverence  for  Christ,  your  hatred  for  the 
great  soldiers  of  history.  There  was  no  question, 
he  said,  but  that  you  would  use  all  your  power  to 
render  the  United  States  inactive  in  this  war." 

"That  is  true,"  he  admitted. 

"But  it  would  not  be  true  if  you  knew  that  you 
were  being  used  by  pro-Germans,  by  traitors," 


150  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

she  cried.  "If  you  knew  that  Germany's  only 
hope  of  victory  was  that  we  should  be  inactive; 
if  you  knew  that  Germany  had  already  settled 
upon  the  amount  of  indemnity  that,  having  de- 
feated the  Allies,  it  would  demand,  and  exact, 
from  us." 

"No-o,  in  that  case,  if  I  thought  that  de 
Grecque  were  dishonest,  that  those  lined  up  with 
me  were  dishonest " 

"And  they  are!  There  is  no  pacifist  element 
in  the  country  to-day  that  is  not  pacifist  because 
of  cowardice  or  selfishness.  You  are  fooled,  Fa- 
ther. You  are  honest.  But  the  rest — they  want 
to  use  you." 

He  stared  at  her.  Lines  of  worriment  ap- 
peared on  his  forehead. 

"But,  Lydia — the  Government  recognises  de 
Grecque — how  do  you  happen  to  know " 

"If  you  just  won't  ask  me  yet,  Father!" 

"But  I  insist,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  tell  you.  To- 
morrow— I  can  tell  you,  to-morrow!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that — you  are  work- 
ing for " 

"I  can't  tell  you — anything,"  she  replied. 

He  looked  at  her.  It  was  all  unreasonable. 
How  could  a  girl,  his  own  daughter,  be  aware  of 
things  that— de  Grecque  an  imposter?  His 


LYDIA  TRAPPED  151 

whole  world  turned  upside  down.  How  could 
the  daughter  of  Stephen  Gryce  know  of  matters 
that  had  been  withheld  from  him?  It  was — ri- 
diculous. And  yet  there  was  nothing  ridiculous 
in  the  girl's  manner.  He  had  never  seen  her  so 
intent,  so  apparently  mistress  of  herself.  Sud- 
denly Gryce  felt  old ;  he  had  lived  rapidly ;  not  in 
the  sense  that  he  had  dissipated  in  loose  living; 
but  he  had  enjoyed  the  bodily  comforts  and  he 
had  worked  strenuously.  How  he  had  worked! 
Too  hard!  Had  he  failed  to  see  things  prop- 
erly? Could  it  be  possible  that,  in  his  concen- 
tration upon  work,  he  had  lost  something  of  his 
old  gift  for  reading  people  ?  Could  any  one  im- 
pose upon  him?  And  were  his  ideas  all  wrong? 
Absurd !  And  yet — but  there  could  be  no  quali- 
fication. War  was  wrong.  Peace  was  right. 
His  jaw  set  stubbornly.  Still,  Lydia  had  prom- 
ised to  reveal  certain  things  to-morrow.  Out  of 
the  mouths  of  babes —  If  it  were  true  that  pro- 
Germans  were  using  him,  that  could  not  affect 
the  soundness  of  the  principle  that  war  was  wrong 
and  peace  was  right,  but  still —  If  the  very 
people  who  agreed  with  him  that  war  was  wrong 
were  planning  to  make  war  against  this  country 

of  his,  when  the  time  should  be  propitious 

Lydia  had  been  in  bed  an  hour  when  a  knock 
upon  her  door  aroused  her. 


152  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  sleepily. 

"Ferguson,  Miss  Lydia,"  came  the  answer. 
"There's  some  men  downstairs  insist  on  seeing 
you,  ma'am." 

"On  seeing  me,"  she  said,  amazed.  "Are  you 
sure?  Don't  they  want  Father?" 

Ferguson's  voice  was  deprecating,  but  certain. 

"No,  Miss  Lydia.  Your  father  is  out — he  was 
telephoned  for  half  an  hour  ago.  And  the  men 
insist  that  it's  you  they  came  to  see.  They're 
policemen,  Miss  Lydia,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

"Policemen?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Lydia.  Shall  I  tell  them  you're 
not  in?" 

She  laughed.  "They'd  probably  find  me,  Fer- 
guson. No,  tell  them  I'll  be  down  directly." 

She  sat  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  her  bed. 
Twice  her  hand  strayed  toward  the  telephone 
near  her  pillow.  It  was  a  private  line ;  she  could 
not  be  heard  down-stairs.  Then  she  shook  her 
head  decidedly.  Something  of  the  stubbornness 
that  was  a  Gryce  trait  was  visible  in  the  set  of  her 
jaw  as  she  entered  her  father's  library.  She 
nodded  quite  coolly  to  the  uniformed  man  who 
seemed  the  chief  of  the  four  men  in  the  room. 

"You  wanted  me?"  she  asked. 

"You're  Miss  Gryce  ?" 

She  nodded  assent. 


LYDIA  TRAPPED  153 

"Charge  of  doing  bomb  work,  young  lady. 
They  want  to  see  you  down  at  headquarters. 
Ready?" 

She  eyed  him.  "Suppose  you  show  me  your 
warrant,"  she  suggested. 

He  sneered.  "Don't  need  a  warrant.  At- 
tempted murder  justifies  arrest  without  one. 
We  got  the  goods  on  you.  Will  you  be  nice  and 
ladylike  and  come  quietly?" 

Ferguson,  the  butler,  had  followed  his  mis- 
tress into  the  room. 

"You  make  him  show  his  warrant,  Miss 
Lydia,"  he  cried. 

The  spokesman  of  the  four  officers  took  a  step 
toward  the  old  man.  "You  want  to  come  along, 
too?" 

Ferguson  whitened;  but  he  held  his  ground. 
Lydia  moved  toward  the  door ;  one  of  the  police- 
men stepped  between  her  and  the  one  way  of 
egress  from  the  room.  He  laid  a  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

Old  Ferguson  leaped  at  him.  He  went  down 
before  a  wicked  blow  in  the  face. 

"Don't,"  cried  Lydia.  The  man  who  had 
struck  the  butler  withheld  the  second  blow  aimed 
at  the  old  man  as  he  stumbled  to  his  knees. 

"I'll  go,"  said  the  girl  quietly. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

LYDIA   GAINS   AN    ALLY 

DE  GRECQTJE  eyed  the  trembling  waiter. 

"It  is  unnecessary  to  remind  you  of  that  which 
happens  to  traitors,  eh?"  he  said. 

The  little  black-haired  man  met  de  Grecque's 
gaze  defiantly. 

"You  talk  of  traitors?"  he  sneered. 

De  Grecque  smiled.  His  eyes,  blazing  with 
excitement,  seemed  to  roll  in  their  sockets;  and 
yet  they  never  left  the  face  of  the  little  waiter. 

"I  am  a  German,"  he  stated. 

"And  I  am  an  Alsatian,"  declared  the  waiter. 

"Who  is  the  subject  of  the  Fatherland,"  de 
Grecque  reminded  him. 

The  waiter  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  there  is  the  matter  of  an  oath,  also,"  con- 
tinued de  Grecque. 

The  waiter  laughed.  "The  recording  angel, 
Herr  de  Grecque,  enters  the  violation  of  an  oath 
made  to  Germany  upon  the  credit  side  of  his 
ledger." 

"So?     Our  cock  crows  proudly,"  he  said  to 

154 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  155 

his  companions.  "I  wonder  if  that  crow  would 
not  change  to  a  bleat?" 

The  mild-faced  secretary  of  the  Booklovers* 
Club  wiped  his  glasses. 

"Why  waste  time  upon  him?"  he  asked.  "We 
have  found  him  out ;  why  not  end  the  matter  here 
and  now?" 

A  murmur  of  assent  came  from  the  throats  of 
the  rest  of  the  pedantic-seeming  group.  De 
Grecque  stilled  the  murmur  with  an  angry  excla- 
mation. 

"Listen,  Hennig,"  he  said,  "we  will  do  with- 
out the  bombast.  It  is  more  pleasant  to  a  man 
to  know  that  the  recording  angel  is  still  recording 
than  to  know  that  he  has  closed  his  book." 

"I  am  not  afraid  to  die,"  said  the  waiter. 

De  Grecque  nodded.  "But  your  wife?  Your 
daughter?" 

Hennig  laughed.  "My  wife  and  daughter? 
What  about  them?" 

De  Grecque's  smile  grew  broader.  He  made 
no  answer.  Slowly  Hennig's  face  whitened. 
He  looked  nervously  about  the  small  room,  on 
one  of  the  upper  floors  of  the  Royal  Restaurant. 
But  he  was  one  against  half  a  dozen,  and  the 
half  dozen  were  armed. 

"You  know  nothing  of  my  wife  and  daughter," 
he  declared.  But  the  defiance  had  oozed  from 


156  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

his  voice,  and  drops  of  sweat  were  upon  his  fore- 
head. 

"No?"  said  de  Grecque.  "Perhaps  we  know 
more  than  you  do,  Hennig.  You  have  thought 
to  hide  from  us  the  fact  that  you  are  married 
and  a  father."  He'  shook  his  head  slowly.  "It 
is  no  compliment  that  you  pay  us,  Hennig,  think- 
ing that  we  should  have  no  interest  in  your  pri- 
vate life."  His  voice  was  mocking.  "Are  we 
not  representatives  of  the  Fatherland?  And 
does  not  the  Fatherland  interest  itself  even  in 
the  tiniest  detail  of  the  lives  of  its  sons?  You 
have  not  appreciated  us,  Hennig — Your  wife 
and  daughter — When  we  began  to  hold  our  meet- 
ings here,  Hennig,  we  went  most  thoroughly  into 
the  affairs  of  the  Royal  Restaurant.  You  were 
among  those  retained.  Why  not?  You  pro- 
fessed to  have  been  born  in  Bavaria;  you  have 
been  for  a  long  time  most  outspoken  in  your 
hatred  for  Germany's  enemies.  But  when  the 
United  States  entered  the  war  we  became  even 
more  careful.  We  discovered,  Hennig,  that  you 
were  married.  There  was  nothing  in  that  to  ex- 
cite suspicion.  The  fact  that  you  had  never 
mentioned  it  meant  nothing.  But  when  a  week 
or  so  ago  we  learned  that  you  had  moved  your 
wife  and  daughter,  still  saying  nothing,  to  an- 
other apartment " 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  157 

Hennig's  lips  even  were  white  now.  "You  do 
not  know  where,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"No?"  De  Grecque  walked  across  the  room. 
He  picked  up  a  telephone.  He  asked  for  a 
number. 

"Mincer?  De  Grecque  talking.  You  have 
Mrs.  Hennig  there?  Put  her  on  the  'phone, 
please."  He  turned  to  the  waiter.  He  beck- 
oned him  to  take  the  telephone.  Shaking  in 
every  muscle,  Hennig  took  the  receiver  from  the 
hand  of  de  Grecque.  He  held  it  to  his  ear  a  mo- 
ment. "Yes,  Frieda;  yes,  it  is  I,  Ernst,  talking. 
No,  they  will  do  you  no  harm.  Strange?  I 
know,  Frieda,  but  they  are" —  he  choked  over 
the  next  word — "friends  of  mine.  I  will  explain 
it  when  I  come  home.  The  little  girl  is  asleep, 
yes?  That  is  good." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  piteously 
to  de  Grecque.  "You  would  not  harm  them,"  he 
said  pleadingly. 

De  Grecque  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "How 
much  have  you  told  them,  Hennig?" 

"Nothin',  I  swear,"  said  the  waiter. 

"And  yet  you  swore  an  oath  to  Germany," 
smiled  de  Grecque.  "Listen,  Hennig,  there  is 
a  way  out  for  you.  This  dictaphone — "  He 
pointed  at  the  instrument  that  had  been  torn  from 
its  place  on  the  wall — "You  put  it  there?" 


158 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"I  did,"  replied  the  waiter. 

"And  who  engaged  you  to  do  it?"  demanded 
de  Grecque. 

The  waiter  swallowed  painfully.  "No  one," 
he  asserted. 

De  Grecque  stared  at  him  a  moment.  Then 
he  walked  across  the  room  to  the  telephone.  He 
turned  his  head  toward  the  waiter.  "I  will  waste 
no  time  on  you,  Hennig,"  he  said.  "There  are 
many  things  that  may  be  done  to  your  wife  and 
child.  Do  I  need  to  assure  you  that  those  things 
will  be  done?" 

"But  I  have  told  them  nothing,"  declared 
Hennig.  "It  will  do  you  no  good " 

"And  yet  you  are  not  quite  as  ready  to  die  as 
you  were  a  few  moments  ago,"  laughed  de 
Grecque.  "Then  you  did  not  know  that  your 
wife  and  child  were  where  we  could  reach  them. 
For  Germany  exacts  the  utmost  payment  of  the 
debts  due  her,  Hennig.  You  may  die,  but  your 
wife  and  child — do  you  wish  to  hear  them  die 
over  the  telephone,  Hennig?" 

"What  is  it  that  you  wish  to  know?"  asked  the 
waiter. 

"That  is  better,"  said  de  Grecque  approvingly. 
"Accidentally,  we  learned  of  your  change  of  ad- 
dress. That  was  not  suspicious  enough  to  invite 
harsh  action  from  us,  but  you  have  been  watched. 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  159 

Until  to-night  there  has  been  nothing  wrong  in 
what  you  have  done.  But  that  a  young  woman 
should  dine  alone  in  a  private  dining-room  here 
excited  interest.  It  is  well  when  one  is  treacher- 
ous even  to  stop  keyholes,  Hennig.  One  of  your 
fellow-waiters  was  interested  in  your  doings. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  suspected  merely  that  the 
young  lady  might  be  not  too  proud  to  be  friendly 
with  a  waiter.  Though  you  look  nothing  of  a 
Don  Juan,  Hennig.  But  lovers  do  not  sit  apart 
all  the  time.  Also  it  would  have  been  well  had 
the  young  lady  thought  to  eat  the  food  she  or- 
dered. And  after  she  had  left  and  the  room 
cleared — behind  a  picture  is  a  good  place  to  hide 
a  dictaphone,  if  one  does  not  attract  notice  by  sit- 
ting too  close  to  the  picture." 

His  voice  had  been  almost  pleasant,  almost 
bantering,  but  now  it  became  harsh.  "Hennig, 
I  give  you  one  minute  to  tell  me  the  name  of  that 
woman." 

As  he  spoke  he  reached  out  his  hand  for  the 
telephone;  he  let  it  rest  on  the  instrument  while 
he  looked  at  the  pallid  waiter.  Hennig  was  no 
coward.  He  had  been  willing  enough  to  die 
rather  than  betray  Lydia  Gryce.  But  his  wife 
and  daughter.  His  loyalty  to  them.  His  fears 
for  them.  Besides,  Miss  Gryce  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  multimillionaire;  these  men  here  would 


160  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

not  dare  do  violence  to  her;  her  father's  wealth 
and  power  would  protect  her.  But  no  one  in 
the  world  could  protect  the  wife  and  daughter  of 
Ernst  Hennig  save  Hennig  himself.  He  knew 
quite  well  that,  no  matter  what  protestations  de 
Grecque  might  make,  his  wife  and  daughter 
might  be  killed.  But  there  was  just  a  chance 
that  de  Grecque,  if  he  gave  his  word,  would  keep 
it.  Hennig  seized  upon  that  chance.  He  told 
them  the  name  of  the  woman  who  had  been  lis- 
tening to  the  dictaphone. 

De  Grecque  passed  a  shaky  hand  across  his 
forehead.  "Lydia  Gryce!"  he  cried.  He  looked 
around  at  his  companions. 

"Stephen  Gryce's  daughter!"  exclaimed  the 
mild-faced  secretary. 

"Why  not?" 

De  Grecque  looked  at  the  man  who  asked  the 
question.  "Do  you  know  anything  about  her?" 
he  demanded. 

"It  was  a  woman  who  tried  to  blow  up  my 
book-store,"  answered  the  other. 

De  Grecque's  nostrils  twitched  as  he  stared  at 
the  clean-shaven  man.  "You  mean,  Graff e,  that 
Miss  Gryce  is  this  woman?" 

"I  can  think  so,  can't  I?  This  girl,  this  Gryce 
girl,  apparently  isn't  on  her  father's  side." 

De  Grecque  spat  upon  the  floor.     ffHis  side! 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  161 

The  ranting  fool  doesn't  know  where  he  stands! 
We're  trying  to  show  him.  But  if  his  daughter 
— but  that's  absurd,  Graffe.  Why  should  she 
want  to  put  a  bomb  in  your  shop  ?" 

"Why  should  she  bribe  this  little  rat,  Hennig, 
here,  to  sell  us  out?"  was  Graff e's  counter. 

De  Grecque  pursed  his  lips.  "That  is  true. 
But — what  does  it  lead  to — this  talk?  Suppose 
you  do  think  that  Gryce's  daughter " 

Graff e  eyed  him  insolently.  "Don't  lose  your 
nerve,"  he  said.  "Suppose  policemen  from  head- 
quarters arrest  Miss  Gryce  for  attempted  mur- 
der— young  Curtiss,  you  know,  lived  in  that 
house  on  Irving  Place  that  she  blew  up;  that 
makes  two  counts  against  her." 

"You  are  insane,  Graffe,"  cried  de  Grecque. 
"To  go  to  the  police  would  be  to  lose  everything." 

"I  know  that,"  answered  Graffe.  "But  I 
don't  have  to  go  to  police  headquarters  to  get 
police  uniforms,  do  I?" 

De  Grecque's  nervous  eyes  ceased  rolling;  ad- 
miration shone  from  them.  Then  dismay  showed 
in  them  again.  "But  her  father!  If  she's  been 
listening  here  she's  probably  told  him — "  He 
looked  around  at  his  companions;  he  spread  his 
hands  wide — "everything." 

"But  telling  it  to  Gryce  isn't  the  same  thing  as 
telling  it  to  the  police,"  said  Graffe.  "And  her 


162  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

father — call  him  on  the  'phone.  Tell  him  that— 
He  stopped  and  appeared  to  be  in  deep  thought. 
"Tell  him  that  you  have  just  learned  that  an 
agent  of  the  Department  of  Justice  has  applied 
for  warrants  for  the  arrest  of  the  members  of  the 
Booklovers'  Club  on  the  charge  of  seditious  ut- 
terances to-night  at  the  dinner  here.  Tell  him, 
that  you  have  been  appealed  to  by  the  secretary 
of  the  club  to  furnish  them  with  counsel  immedi- 
ately. Ask  Gryce,  as  one  interested  in  the  pur- 
poses of  the  club,  to  come  at  once  to  your  hotel, 
to  confer  about  the  matter." 

"But  the  hour!  It's  after  midnight,"  pro- 
tested de  Grecque.  "If  he  refuses  to  come,  what 
then?" 

Graffe  whistled.  "If  he  refuses  to  come  it 
will  probably  mean  that  to-morrow  morning  his 
daughter,  if  she  has  heard  enough  through  that 
dictaphone  to  justify  it,  will  be  at  the  Federal 
Building  asking  for  your  arrest,  for  the  arrest 
of  all  of  us.  She  may  have  gone  there  already. 
But  if  she  hasn't,  and  we  can  get  her  father  out 
of  the  house,  I  can  get  her  to-night." 

"What  good  will  that  do?"  demanded  de 
Grecque. 

Insolence  was  again  in  Graff e's  voice.  "What 
good  does  it  do  to  threaten  this  waiter?  I  sup- 
pose your  idea  is  to  wait  for  the  storm  to  break?" 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  163 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  de  Grecque.  He 
glared  at  the  frightened  Hennig.  "My  idea  was 
to  settle  with  Hennig  first,  and  then  to  send  some 
one  to  settle  with  her.  But  if  Hennig  is  lying — " 
Indecision  was,  paradoxically,  the  strongest 
thing  about  him  now. 

"And  the  easiest  way  to  find  out  is  to  do  as  I 
say,"  said  Graffe.  "If  the  girl  denies  having 
placed  the  bombs — I  can  tell  if  she  is  lying  or  not. 
And  if  she  did,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  Hen- 
nig. Telephone  Gryce." 

It  amounted  to  an  order,  but  de  Grecque 
showed  no  resentment.  He  called  up  Gryce, 
talked  as  Graff e  had  directed,  and  made  the  ap- 
pointment. 

"Did  he  mention  his  daughter?"  asked  Graffe, 
as  de  Grecque  hung  up. 

De  Grecque  shook  his  head.  "No.  But  he 
seemed  reluctant  to  come.  For  one  so  enthusi- 
astically on  our  side  but  a  few  hours  ago  he 
seemed — cold." 

"It's  pretty  late,"  Graffe  reminded  him.  "No 
man  likes  to  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

He  looked  at  the  anxious  faces  of  the  group. 
"The  girl  probably  would  recognise  any  one  of 
you,"  he  said.  He  spoke  to  de  Grecque.  "Shall 
I  take  Curtiss  with  me?" 

De  Grecque  shook  his  head.     "What  you  told 


164  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

us  about  him  speaks  well  for  his  trustworthiness, 
but  this  is  too  delicate  a  matter.  I  will  send  the 
men  with  you." 

Graffe  shrugged.  "So  long  as  they  aren't 
afraid  of  such  a  job,  it  doesn't  matter.  But 
we'd  better  start.  It's  a  long  chance  anyway." 

De  Grecque  went  to  the  telephone  again.  He 
spoke  rapidly  for  a  minute.  Then  he  turned 
back  to  Graffe.  "They  will  meet  you  at  your 
shop  in  ten  minutes.  How  soon  can  you  have 
police  uniforms?" 

"I  have  them  now,"  said  Graffe.  Once  again 
admiration  shone  in  the  eyes  of  de  Grecque. 

A  roadster,  enclosed,  and  a  limousine  stood 
before  the  Gryce  residence.  The  chief  of  the 
four  men  who  had  arrested  her  showed  Lydia  into 
the  roadster.  He  stepped  in  beside  her.  With- 
out a  word  he  started  the  car.  At  the  first  cor- 
ner he  turned  north.  Lydia  stiffened.  "Police 
headquarters  are  down-town,  aren't  they?"  she 
asked. 

The  man  beside  her  glanced  over  his  shoulder ; 
through  the  gloom  the  lights  of  the  limousine 
were  plainly  visible. 

"You  see  that  car  behind  us,  Miss  Gryce? 
Well,  the  men  in  it  can't  hear  what  I'm  saying. 
But  if  you  and  I  don't  come  to  an  understanding 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  165 

within  ten  minutes,  then  we  never  will.  For  I 
won't  have  a  chance  to  talk  to  you  again." 

"You're  not  of  the  police?"  Apprehension, 
well  mastered  but  undisguisable,  was  in  her  voice. 

"I'm  Rogan,"  was  the  answer.  "I'm  also 
Graff e.  Sit  down!"  he  cried  harshly,  as  the  girl 
half  rose  from  her  seat.  "Would  I  be  telling 
you  this  if  I  weren't  your  friend?" 

"Then  why- 
He  cut  her  short.  "You've  got  sense,  Miss 
Gryce;  I  know  that.  What  I  want  to  know  is 
whether  you're  honest  or  not.  Hennig  has 
blabbed.  What  were  you  doing  with  a  dicta- 
phone in  the  Royal  Restaurant?" 

"Why  should  I  tell  you?"  she  asked. 

"For  the  same  reason  that  you're  going  to  tell 
me  why  you  placed  a  bomb  in  my  bookshop ;  why 
you  tried  to  blow  my  friend  Deems  to  Kingdom 
Come." 

In  the  dim  light  that  the  overhead  lamp  af- 
forded, Rogan  could  see  the  faint  smile  on  the 
girl's  face.  Inwardly  he  applauded  her  courage. 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  I  put  those  bombs 
there?"  she  asked. 

Rogan  pressed  the  accelerator  sharply.  He 
applied  the  brakes  almost  as  sharply  and  skidded 
past  a  belated  taxicab.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  didn't?"  he  demanded. 


166  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Will  you  believe  me  if  I  deny  it?"  she  queried. 

"I  wouldn't  have  five  minutes  ago,  but — I'm 
beginning  to  get  the  Deems  point  of  view.  And 
I'm  not  a  young  man  either,  Miss  Gryce.  But 
if  you  didn't — this  is  life  or  death,  Miss  Gryce. 
You're  beginning  to  understand  who  and  what 
I  am,  aren't  you?" 

"I  know  that  you're  not  a  policeman,"  she 
said.  "But  if  you're  not  an  ally  of  de 
Grecque " 

He  cut  her  short  with  a  laugh.  "Miss  Gryce, 
there  are  several  angles  to  this  affair,  and  I  guess 
we  haven't  been  working  for  the  same  one.  You 
don't  stand  with  your  father.  That  dictaphone 
business  proves  that.  But  the  bomb — will  you 
explain?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said.  "And  you— the  State  De- 
partment no  longer  has  a  Rogan  on  its  list  of 
employes." 

"But  it  may  have  later  on,  just  the  same  as  it 
used  to,"  he  said. 

He  read  the  sudden  understanding  in  her  face. 
"But  that  paper  that  you  left  in  Mr.  Deems's 
room — my  father — I  don't  understand  why 

For  a  moment,  to  their  imminent  danger,  he 
forgot  to  guide  the  car.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  haven't  that  paper?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  never  had  it,"  she  answered. 


LYDIA  GAINS  AN  ALLY  167 

He  looked  at  her.  He  drew  something  from 
his  pocket.  "Miss  Gryce,  if  I  take  you  where 
I'm  supposed  to,  you'll  never  leave  it  alive,  and 
if  I  don't  take  you — what  have  you  on  de 
Grecque?"  he  demanded  suddenly. 

"Not  enough,"  she  replied. 

"Neither  have  I,"  he  told  her.  "It's  up  to  us 
both  to  keep  on  working,  and,  now  that  we  un- 
derstand each  other  not  to  waste  time  fighting 
each  other ;  de  Grecque  is  a  bad  one,  Miss  Gryce. 
When  he's  scared,  he  gets  rattled,  and  that's  the 
most  dangerous  kind;  the  kind  that  forgets  its 
finesse  and  thinks  only  of  killing.  While  he 
tried  to  make  up  his  mind  to-night  I  made  it  up 
for  him.  Otherwise,  instead  of  getting  you  out 
of  the  house,  de  Grecque  would  have  sent  his  men 
to  do  the  sort  of  thing  your  groom  did  to  Clancy 
of  the  Record" 

For  all  her  courage  she  shuddered  slightly. 

"Now  listen,  Miss  Gryce,  I'm  going  to  put  a 
bullet  where  it  won't  do  me  any  particular  dam- 
age. I'll  stop  the  car.  You  know  how  to  run 
it,  of  course."  He  went  on  as  she  nodded  her 
assent:  "This  roadster  can  lose  that  limousine. 
You  make  your  getaway.  They'll  stop  to  pick 
me  up.  Don't  go  back  to  your  house.  Spend 
the  night  with  friends  or  at  a  hotel.  Don't  go 
to  the  police.  We'd  have  nothing  really  to  tell 


168  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

them.  We  might  get  a  few  unimportant  people, 
but — we  want  de  Grecque  and  the  people  behind 
him.  'Night,  Miss  Gryce." 

As  nonchalantly  as  though  he  were  brushing 
something  from  his  sleeve  Rogan  pressed  the 
muzzle  of  the  revolver  in  his  hand  against  his  left 
forearm.  Before  the  girl's  cry  could  pass  her 
lips,  he  pressed  the  trigger.  The  car  wavered  a 
moment,  then  it  began  to  stop.  Rogan  pitched 
headforemost  out  the  door.  As  he  fell  she  heard 
him  cry,  "Step  on  it,  Miss  Gryce." 

She  cast  one  glance  backward  toward  the  ap- 
proaching limousine.  It  was  slowing  down. 
She  threw  in  the  clutch;  she  was  in  third  speed 
as  she  reached  the  next  corner ;  she  glanced  again 
over  her  shoulder.  The  limousine  was  moving 
again;  evidently  it  had  picked  up  Rogan,  had 
heard  his  explanation  that  he  had  been  shot  by 
the  girl,  and — but  she  could  speculate  later.  At 
that  moment  she  must  dodge  a  mail-truck  and 
round  a  corner.  She  did  both — on  two  wheels. 
Her  toe  had  found  the  accelerator  and  was  "step- 
ping on  it." 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

A   STRANGE   MESSAGE 

THERE  was  a  policeman  doing  perfunctory  guard 
duty  in  front  of  Heinrich  Graffe's  bookshop  on 
Lexington  Avenue.  The  arc-light  beneath  which 
he  stood  revealed  him  clearly.  To  Deems  the 
officer  seemed  typical  of  the  present  American 
spirit.  An  outrage  had  been  attempted  against 
the  premises  which  the  officer  guarded,  not  half 
a  day  ago;  it  was  quite  within  the  bounds  of 
probability  that  a  second  attempt  might  be  made ; 
one  would  think  that  ordinary  caution  would 
cause  the  policeman  to  select  a  less  conspicuous 
spot,  a  spot  where  he  afforded  a  less  perfect  tar- 
get. But  as  he  leaned  against  the  post  that  sup- 
ported the  light  his  whole  manner  seemed  to  say, 
"It  can't  happen  to  me." 

So,  with  the  most  desperate  foe  it  had  ever 
faced  aligned  against  it,  America  looked  more  or 
less  complacently  at  the  ruin  that  foe  had 
wrought  to  others  and  said,  "It  can't  happen  to 
me." 

And  yet,  within  America's  very  gates  vicious 

169 


170 


propaganda,  aimed  to  destroy  the  structure  of 
the  nation,  was  being  almost  openly  carried  on. 
A  few  days  ago  Deems  would  have  dismissed,  as 
the  ravings  of  a  maniac,  the  words  of  a  person 
who  would  have  told  him  the  things  that  he  now 
knew  to  be  facts.  But  to-night — even  a  gently 
bred  girl,  daughter  of  an  American  of  American 
stock,  to  whom  this  country  had  given  the  oppor- 
tunity to  achieve  place,  power  and  fortune,  had 
become  so  infected  by  the  vicious  germs  of  dis- 
loyalty that  she  did  not  hesitate  even  at  murder 
in  the  furthering  of  her  activities  against  the  land 
of  her  birth. 

His  lips  were  set  in  a  grim  line  as  he  paused 
a  block  away  from  the  policeman.  There  were 
things  higher  even  than  love;  and  a  love  such  as 
his,  inspired  by  a  woman  like  Lydia  Gryce,  must 
be  stamped  out  of  his  heart. 

He  had  walked  in  a  semi-daze  from  the  saloon 
on  Bleecker  Street,  where  he  had  left  Randolph 
Fallen,  only  half  conscious  of  whither  he  was 
bound.  Love  is  a  guest  who  comes  not  at  invi- 
tation, nor  departs  upon  request.  It  is  easier  to 
say,  "I  will  have  done  with  her,"  than  it  is  to  live 
up  to  the  resolve. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  for  Deems,  at  last  con- 
vinced that  Lydia  Gryce  was  not  merely  a  trai- 
tor, not  merely  a  murderess,  but  both  of  these, 


A  STRANGE  MESSAGE  171 

and  God  only  knew  what  besides,  to  determine  to 
think  of  her  only  as  the  vicious,  unspeakable  thing 
that  she  was.  But  the  memory  of  her  eyes,  her 
smile,  her  mocking  voice ! 

But  these  things  were  camouflage,  behind 
which  lurked  the  real  woman,  the  woman  who, 
through  motives  incomprehensible,  had  sold  her 
soul  to  the  enemies  of  America.  And  the  real 
woman  was  one  whom  it  was  his  duty  to  bring  to 
justice. 

To  Rogan,  then,  to  tell  his  chief  that  there 
would  be  no  longer  even  unspoken  objection  to 
the  part  he  played,  Deems  was  bound. 

But  the  sight  of  the  policeman  on  the  corner 
halted  him.  It  was  quite  probable  that  the  man 
would  accost  any  who  tried  to  enter,  openly,  the 
bookshop.  Questions  might  prove  embarrass- 
ing. And  arrests  upon  suspicion  were  not  in- 
frequent, as  Deems's  newspaper  experience  had 
taught  him.  It  was  just  as  well  to  round  the 
block  and  enter  the  bookshop  from  Rogan's 
apartment  on  a  side  street. 

He  did  so,  undisturbed  by  the  officer.  Minna, 
who  was  more  than  a  clerk  to  Rogan,  was  in  the 
tiny  living-room  of  the  apartment  of  which  she 
was  housekeeper. 

"He  has  not  returned,"  she  told  Deems.  "He 
has  gone  to  the  Booklovers'  Club." 


172  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"He  has  not  telephoned?"  asked  Deems. 

The  stout,  Teutonic  woman  shook  her  head. 

"For  why  should  he?"  she  asked  placidly. 

Deems  stared  at  her  with  something  of  admira- 
tion in  his  eyes.  Most  women  would  be  reduced 
to  hysteria  by  the  experience  that  Minna  had 
passed  through  this  evening,  but  she  was  appar- 
ently not  discomposed  at  all.  Rogan  had  done 
wisely  in  choosing  this  woman  for  the  position  of 
trust  that  she  held. 

But  he  himself  was  not  as  calm  as  she.  Rogan 
had  dared  greatly  in  going  to  the  Booklovers'. 
If  de  Grecque  should  happen  to  recognise  him! 
And  there  was  no  reason  why  Rogan  should  not 
have  returned  by  now.  Ostensibly  he  had  been 
summoned  to  go  into  more  detail  concerning  the 
new  recruit,  William  Curtiss.  That  should  not 
have  taken  him  until  now.  And  Rogan  had 
spoken  as  though  he  held  some  premonition  that 
to-night  might  see  the  end  of  his  labours.  He 
had  told  Deems,  if  Rogan's  end  should  come,  to 
go  to  the  proper  authorities  and  lodge  what  in- 
formation he  had  against  the  Booklovers. 

But — all  along  Rogan  had  been  insistent  that, 
aside  from  the  aid  that  Deems  gave  him,  he 
should  play  a  lone  hand.  At  times,  this  insist- 
ence upon  secrecy  irked  Deems;  it  gave  rise  to 
vague  suspicions  that  his  love  for  Lydia  Gryce 


A  STRANGE  MESSAGE  173 

had  fostered.  But  now  that  Rogan  had  been 
proved  entirely  correct,  suspicion,  if  his  uncer- 
tainty could  possibly  have  been  called  that — it 
had  been  a  most  impalpable  feeling — had  van- 
ished. Rogan  was  justified  in  playing  the  game 
his  own  way;  results  had  proved  that. 

And  if  Deems  should  rush  to  the  Federal  au- 
thorities, merely  because  Rogan  had  not  arrived 
home  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night!  He  shook 
his  head.  It  would  not  do.  He  might  jeopard- 
ise some  of  Rogan's  plans.  And  these  plans 
were  subtly  laid,  long  laboured  over.  Rogan 
was  clever,  uncannily  so.  Until  Deems  had  seen 
the  lifeless  body  of  his  chief  he  would  hesitate  to 
believe  that  Rogan  was  dead. 

But — Rogan  had  not  come  home,  and  he  had 
gone  upon  a  mission  of  some  risk.  Also,  it  was 
as  well  that  Rogan  should  know  of  the  absolute 
proof  of  Lydia  Gryce's  guilt  at  the  earliest  pos- 
sible moment.  Not  that  Rogan  had  ever  seemed 
to  doubt  that  guilt,  but  its  certainty  might  in 
some  way  affect  his  plans. 

It  was  late,  the  Booklovers  might  all  have  de- 
parted from  their  gathering  place.  But  a  great 
dinner  had  been  planned  for  to-night,  and  some 
of  the  plotters  might  remain  behind.  At  any 
rate,  Deems  could  not  sleep  to-night  until  he  had 


174  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

seen  Rogan.  He  started  for  the  Royal  Restau- 
rant. 

He  was  under  no  illusion  as  to  the  risk  he  ran. 
If  Rogan  had  been  discovered  to  be  an  agent  of 
the  Government  then  Rogan  was  dead.  His 
failure  to  come  home  indicated  such  a  discovery. 
At  least,  it  indicated  this  to  Deems,  whose  men- 
tal processes,  whose  calmness  of  judgment,  were 
more  upset  than  he  realised. 

And  if  Rogan  had  been  found  out,  then  short 
shrift  would  await  the  man  whom  Rogan  had  rec- 
ommended to  the  Booklovers.  But — and  Deems 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  crossed  Madison 
Square — that  was  a  risk  that  might  well  be  run. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  though  he  was  not  con- 
scious of  it,  his  heart  invited  such  risks.  Love  is 
what  makes  life  precious ;  love  had  left  the  heart 
of  Deems,  he  thought,  and  life  was  of  little  value. 
Moreover,  there  had  suddenly  welled  up  within 
him  an  affection  for  Rogan.  It  was  born,  partly, 
of  the  fact  that  together  they  ran  risks;  partly 
of  the  fact  that  together  they  were  serving  their 
country;  and  partly  of  the  fact  that  Deems  had 
begun  to  pity  the  secret  agent. 

There  was  no  whine  in  the  soul  of  Rogan. 
Ever  he  carried  with  him  the  knowledge  that  his 
heart  was  weak,  that  death  might  overtake  him 
in  his  next  stride.  And  yet,  when  once  death 


A  STRANGE  MESSAGE  175 

had  cast  its  chill  shade  over  him,  Rogan  had 
turned  up  smiling,  with  merely  a  casual  reference 
to  his  ailment.  No  self-pity  in  the  Rogan  heart. 
It  was  this  that  accounted  in  a  measure  for 
Deems's  regard  for  the  man.  Most  men,  suffer- 
ing under  Rogan's  affliction,  would  nurse  them- 
selves, avoid  all  risks  and  excitement.  But 
Rogan  invited  them. 

To  let  Rogan  face  alone  whatever  he  might  be 
facing  at  the  Royal  Restaurant  would  not  come 
within  Deems's  scope  of  what  he  ought  to  do. 

On  the  west  side  of  Madison  Square  he  found 
a  night-hawk  taxicab,  and  ten  minutes  later  he 
had  been  dropped  within  half  a  block  of  the 
Royal  Restaurant.  An  employe  still  remained 
within  the  dimmed  building  that  housed  the 
Booklovers'  Club.  He  was  the  waiter  who  had 
ushered  Deems  into  the  meeting  this  afternoon. 

"Everybody  gone,  sir,"  he  told  Deems. 

"Mr.  Graff e,  too?"  asked  Deems. 

"Everybody,  sir,"  replied  the  waiter.  "They 
left  an  hour  or  more  ago." 

He  was  not  rude,  but  plainly  he  desired  no 
conversation.  How  deeply  the  man  might  be 
concerned  in  the  affairs  of  the  Booklovers, 
Deems  could  not  guess.  But  patently,  he  was 
not  desirous  to  talk  even  with  the  man  whom  he 
had  led  into  the  meeting  this  afternoon.  For  he 


176  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

did  not  release  the  chain  that  held  the  door  open 
but  a  few  inches. 

And  questioning  him  would  only  arouse  sus- 
picion. With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  Deems 
turned  away.  From  an  all-night  drug-store  on 
Broadway  he  called  up  Rogan's  apartment.  The 
woman,  Minna,  answered  the  telephone. 

"No,  Mr.  Curtiss,  Mr.  Graffe  has  not  yet  re- 
turned, but  he  just  now  telephoned,  and  he  said 
that  he  would  meet  you  in  the  morning  over  here. 
Everything  is  all  right,  he  said.  He  told  me  to 
tell  you  especially  not  to  worry  about  the  young 
lady.  I  don't  know  what  he  meant,  but  he  said 
that  you  were  not  to  worry,  that  she  was  all  right. 
That  was  all,  sir." 

Deems  hung  up.  He  stared,  mystified,  out 
upon  Times  Square.  What  on  earth  did  Rogan 
mean?  "The  young  lady  was  all  right."  Did 
he  mean  that  Lydia  Gryce  was  not  the  murderess 
and  traitor  that  Rogan  had  thought  her  to  be,  or 
did  he  mean  that  Lydia  Gryce  had  been  put 
where  she  could  do  no  more  harm  to  her  country? 
Rogan  must  mean  this  last ;  he  could  mean  noth- 
ing else.  With  the  evidence  of  Lydia's  guilt  fresh 
before  him,  Deems  could  place  no  other  inter- 
pretation upon  Rogan's  words. 

And  with  the  interpretation  came  wrath 
against  Rogan.  How  had  Rogan  dared  to  make 


A  STRANGE  MESSAGE  177 

an  arrest  of  Lydia  Gryce  without  consulting 
Deems?  And  then  he  laughed.  What  an  idiot 
he  was.  Greater  things  than  the  fancy  of 
Robert  Deems  were  engaged  upon  by  Rogan. 
Deems's  interest  in  a  girl  would  hardly  deter 
Rogan  from  doing  his  duty. 

Life  had  never  seemed  so  black,  so  hopeless, 
as  it  did  now.  And  then  the  knowledge  of  where 
his  duty  lay  came  before  his  mental  eyes.  His 
duty  was  to  help  his  country,  not  to  think  of  an 
unworthy  love.  He  braced  his  shoulders  and 
stepped  out  into  Times  Square. 

Rogan  was  safe — that  fact  should  stand  out 
much  more  prominently  than  the  fate  of  Lydia 
Gryce.  He  would  try  and  dwell  upon  that. 

He  crossed  the  Square.  Plenty  of  hotels  were 
near  here,  but  he  was  a  newspaper  man,  known  to 
the  newspaper  craft,  and  it  was  as  well  that  he 
should  seek  quarters  remote  from  this  section  of 
the  town,  where,  in  the  morning,  he  might  run 
into  the  men  he  knew. 

Across  Forty-second  Street  to  the  Avenue  he 
strolled.  His  mind  was  less  jumbled  and  con- 
fused than  it  had  been.  The  warm  night  air 
was  refreshing.  Sleep  was  a  thing  of  minor  im- 
portance, and  the  fascination  of  New  York  after 
midnight,  not  the  fascination  of  its  gayer  sec- 
tion, but  the  charm  of  the  deserted  streets,  was 


178  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

upon  him.  He  sauntered  up  the  Avenue  and 
every  step  seemed  to  take  him  farther  from 
Lydia  Gryce.  That  coolness,  that  feeling  of 
aloofness,  almost,  that  follows  prolonged  mental 
strain  and  agony,  and  that  lonely  streets  nourish, 
was  upon  him.  He  could  review,  almost  without 
pain,  everything  that  had  happened  to  him  since 
his  first  bizarre  meeting  with  Lydia  Gryce. 
Dispassionately  now,  at  this  night-hour,  he  could 
think  of  her  as  a  person,  not  the  person. 

He  no  longer  puzzled  as  to  the  meaning  of 
Rogan's  message  to  Minna.  That  didn't  mat- 
ter. He  knew  what  she  was,  and  knowing,  was 
freed  from  the  bonds  that  her  eyes  had  mystically 
woven  about  him. 

He  was  getting  too  far  up-town.  A  bit  south, 
on  the  next  avenue  east,  were  unpretentious  ho- 
tels where  he  could  obtain  a  room.  He  turned 
back  for  a  few  blocks,  then  crossed  to  the  east. 
He  reached  Fourth  Avenue  just  in  time  to  wit- 
ness a  collision  between  two  taxicabs.  It  almost 
seemed  that  the  accident  had  been  deliberate. 
On  that  street,  empty  of  traffic,  there  was  no  ex- 
cuse for  a  collision. 

Deems  slowed  down  the  walk  that,  at  prospect 
of  the  accident,  had  become  almost  a  run.  There 
was  no  need  of  any  one  to  help,  no  one  had  been 
hurt.  And  then  he  broke  into  a  run  again.  For 


A  STRANGE  MESSAGE  179 

from  the  taxi  that  had,  with  seeming  deliberation 
run  into  the  other,  emerged  two  men.  The  occu- 
pant of  the  first  machine  had  stepped  out  upon 
the  sidewalk.  A  big,  burly  man,  he  neverthe- 
less went  to  his  knees  before  the  rush  of  the  two 
men  from  the  second  machine. 

And  as  one  of  the  latter  raised  his  hand  above 
his  head  Deems  saw  why  the  big  man  had  so 
quickly  succumbed.  For  the  attacker  held  in 
his  hand  a  short,  bulky  weapon  that  Deems 
thought  must  be  some  sort  of  a  black-jack.  And 
then  he  was  close  upon  them.  His  rushing  steps 
sounded  loudly  upon  the  pavement.  A  cry  of 
warning  from  his  companion  caused  the  man  with 
the  black-jack  to  turn.  His  blow  was  promptly 
launched  at  Deems. 

Under  it  Deems  dived;  his  hands  gripped  the 
knees  of  the  man  in  a  foot-ball  tackle,  bringing 
him  to  the  ground,  Deems  uppermost.  A  light- 
ning smash  upon  the  wrist  broke  the  man's  hold 
of  the  weapon.  Over  his  shoulder  Deems  saw 
the  drivers  of  the  two  taxicabs  engaged  in  silent 
struggle,  while  the  big  man  who  had  been  felled, 
having  gained  his  feet,  was  putting  up  a  des- 
perate fight  against  the  second  of  the  two  who 
had  got  out  of  the  rear  of  the  second  taxi. 

And  then  his  attention  was  fully  engaged  by 
the  man  with  whom  he  was  locked  in  combat. 


180  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Deems  knew  a  little  of  wrestling,  but  his  foe  knew 
more.  Grip  as  Deems  might,  the  other  broke 
his  hold.  The  man  gained  his  feet  at  the  mo- 
ment that  the  big  man,  the  object  of  this  noc- 
turnal assault,  had  broken  free  from  his  oppo- 
nent. Likewise,  the  two  taxi-men,  exhausted  by 
their  brief  battle,  were  standing  apart,  and  were 
watching  each  other  cat-like. 

Deems  climbed  to  his  knees.  Breathing 
heavily,  he  welcomed  the  rat-a-tat  upon  the  pave- 
ment of  a  policeman's  night-stick.  From  his 
kneeling  position  he  dived  again  at  the  man  who 
wielded  the  black-jack.  But  the  would-be-killer 
avoided  him  by  a  sidestep.  The  man  cried  out 
hoarsely — in  German,  Deems  would  have  sworn. 
Then  there  was  a  rush  for  the  taxi  that  they  had 
abandoned.  They  were  in  it,  all  three  of  them, 
and  careening  crazily  around  a  corner  before  the 
coming  policeman  could  stop  them,  or  before 
Deems,  his  wind  almost  now  restored,  could 
move. 

And  then  he  recognised  the  man  whom  he  had 
undoubtedly,  by  his  intervention,  saved.  It  was 
Stephen  Gryce,  the  father  of  Lydia,  his  erstwhile 
employer,  the  potential,  if  not  actual  traitor, 
whom  he  and  Rogan  had  been  endeavouring  to 
trap.  And  even  as  Gryce's  identity  was  known 
to  him  he  remembered  where  he  had  seen  the  face 


A  STRANGE  MESSAGE  181 

of  the  man  with  whom  he  had  just  been  grap- 
pling; it  was  the  face  of  one  of  those  men  whom 
he  had  met  at  the  Booklovers'  Club  this — no,  yes- 
terday afternoon. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

AMERICAN,    AFTER    AT.T, 

DE  GRECQUE  stared  at  the  big  man.  Lines  of 
resolution  were  pointed  deep  about  Gryce's 
mouth.  He  shook  his  head  determinedly. 

"I  can  not  see  the  necessity  for  all  this  alarm," 
he  said  coldly.  "If  warrants  are  issued  for  mem- 
bers of  the  Booklovers'  we  can  defer  action  until 
those  warrants  are  served.  There  will  be  no  dif- 
ficulty in  obtaining  bail  and  doing  whatever 
seems  necessary  when  something  has  happened. 
To  get  together  now,  to  confer  here  endlessly — • 
it  is  as  though  we  had  done  something  treason- 
able." 

De  Grecque  bit  his  lip. 

"You,  of  course,  understand  that  the  Govern- 
ment will  leave  no  stone  unturned  in  its  en- 
deavour to  find  victims  at  this  moment." 

Gryce  laughed.  "This  is  a  democracy,  de 
Grecque.  There'll  be  no  Bastile  business  in 
America.  In  fact,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  a  pub- 
lic trial  might  not  be  a  good  thing." 

De  Grecque's  sneer  was  faint  but  palpable. 

182 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL  183 

"May  I  inquire  how?"  he  asked. 

"It  will  tend  to  crystallise  the  opposition  to 
war,  to  the  part  that  our  Government  evidently 
intends  to  play  in  the  war,"  replied  the  publisher. 
"Let  the  Government  show  its  hand!  If  honest 
criticism  is  treason  we  want  to  find  it  out;  we 
want  to  show  the  people  of  this  country  whither 
the  war  is  leading  them.  I  shall  not  mind  if  I, 
too,  am  indicted." 

"I  should  mind  it  very  much,"  said  de  Grecque. 

"Why?  We  are  both  innocent  of  treason," 
said  Gryce. 

De  Grecque  blew  a  smoke  ring;  meticulously 
he  brushed  ashes  from  his  sleeve. 

"We  might  not  be  able  to  prove  it,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

Gryce's  broad  face  broadened.  "That's  ab- 
surd, de  Grecque!  Not  one  word  of  mine,  not 
one  line  printed  in  my  newspapers,  could  pos- 
sibly be  termed  treasonable.  An  open  differ- 
ence with  the  policy  of  the  Government — yes. 
But  treason — no  one  but  a  fool  would  make  such 
a  false  statement." 

De  Grecque's  rolling  eyes  fastened  themselves 
upon  the  face  of  his  visitor. 

"I  have  never  before  been  termed  a  fool,"  he 
said  slowly. 

Gryce  laughed  embarrassedly.     "I  don't  ap- 


184  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

ply  the  term  to  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said;  "I 
referred  to  the  possible  person  who  might  make 
such  a  charge  against  me." 

"You  think  that  you  could  face  such  a  charge 
successfully  then?"  queried  de  Grecque. 

Gryce's  eyes  opened  wide.  "You  talk  as 
though  you  really  believed  that  the  Government 
would  be  insane  enough  to  make  such  an  attack 
on  me."  His  forehead  wrinkled  for  a  moment, 
then  it  cleared  as  he  smiled.  "It's  late  at  night 
and  you  are  seeing  bogies,  de  Grecque.  The 
Government  will  hesitate  a  long  time  before  it  at- 
tacks me.  Moreover,  it  will  have  to  have  evi- 
dence. And  that  it  can  never  have  because  none 
exists." 

De  Grecque  nodded  thoughtfully.  "There  is, 
of  course,  the  working  agreement  between  you 
and  myself,"  he  suggested. 

Gryce  laughed  loudly.  "An  agreement  that 
we  would  both  do  what  we  could  to  save  a  war- 
torn  world  from  further  sacrifice.  Even  had 
every  word  uttered  between  us  been  overheard 
and  noted  by  Federal  agents,  the  Government 
would  hesitate  to  term  that  treason.  Be  sane, 
de  Grecque.  To  question  the  patriotism  of  a 
man  like  you,  or  one  like  myself — nothing  but 
patriotism,  a  desire  to  save  useless  bloodshed,  has 
inspired  us  both." 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL  185 

He  tossed  his  cigar  into  the  fireplace  and  rose 
to  his  feet.  "Let  us  wait,"  he  said,  finality  in  his 
tones,  "until  the  warrants  have  been  served.  It 
will  be  time  enough  then.  In  the  meantime," 
and  he  yawned,  "sleep  will  do  us  no  harm." 

He  looked  about  him  for  his  hat.  But  de 
Grecque  remained  seated. 

"Just  a  little  longer,  Gryce,"  he  said.  His 
voice  was  suddenly  harsh,  menacing,  all  suavity 
gone  from  it. 

Gryce's  eyebrows  lifted.  Those  who  knew 
him  well  knew  that  facial  movement  indicated 
resentful  surprise,  and  resentful  surprise,  in 
Gryce,  was  ordinarily  followed  by  violent  out- 
burst. But  he  merely  bowed  slightly. 

"Why  is  it,  Gryce,  do  you  think,  that  I  came 
to  you  with  my  suggestions  that  America  play  a 
passive  part  in  this  world-war?" 

"Why?"  Resentment  left  Gryce's  eyes;  more 
than  surprise,  wonderment  was  in  them  now. 
"Because  you  knew  my  feelings,  I  suppose, 
Comte  de  Grecque." 

"And  yet — there  was  danger  in  what  I  sug- 
gested to  you,"  said  the  other. 

"Danger?  The  danger  of  popular  misunder- 
standing, that  was  all." 

"You  play  poker  quite  a  bit,  don't  you?"  asked 
de  Grecque. 


186  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

The  irrelevance  annoyed  the  publisher. 
"Well?" 

"The  bluff,  as  it  is  called,  is  an  important  part 
of  the  game,  eh?  Suppose,  Gryce,  that  you  and 
I  quit  bluffing?" 

The  publisher  looked  around;  he  was  close  to 
his  chair,  and  he  sat  down  again.  He  met  the 
rolling  eyes  of  de  Grecque  fairly. 

"Two  or  three  people  in  recent  years  have  had 
the  nerve  to  talk  to  me  in  the  tone  you  are  using, 
de  Grecque,"  he  said  gently.  "One  of  them  was 
an  ambassador  from  a  South  American  country. 
He  didn't  like  certain  editorials  in  my  papers. 
He  was  recalled.  Another  was  a  senator.  He 
is  in  private  life  to-day.  Another  was  a  mil- 
lionaire railroad  man.  He's  doing  time  in  At- 
lanta." 

"And  you  think  to  frighten  me?"  sneered  de 
Grecque. 

Gryce  waved  his  hands.  "Not  at  all;  I'm 
merely  telling  you,  de  Grecque.  We  are  friends, 
you  and  I,  but  friendship  depends  upon  respect. 
You  will,  if  you  care  to  continue  our  friendship, 
put  back  into  your  voice  that  respect  that  has 
been  there  until  now." 

"I  was  speaking  of  that  part  of  the  game  of 
poker  which  is  known  as  bluffing,  Gryce."  De 
Grecque  spoke  as  though  he  had  not  heard  the 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL  187 

publisher's  interruption.  "It  is  all  very  well,  up 
to  a  certain  point,  to  use  camouflage.  But  there 
comes  a  time,  between  men,  when  there  must  be 
no  uncertainty  of  mutual  purpose.  I  did  not  ap- 
proach you,  Gryce,  merely  because  I  knew  of 
your  pronounced  views  against  war." 

Gryce  waited  for  him  to  continue.  De 
Grecque  lifted  his  shoulders.  "You  insist?"  he 
asked.  "Very  well,"  as  Gryce  made  no  reply. 
"That  letter  which  you  wrote  to  Senator  Randall. 
You  remember  that,  eh?  I  am  sorry  that  you 
force  me  to  mention  it." 

Gryce  reached  for  his  cigar-case.  He  failed 
to  offer  one  to  de  Grecque.  Carefully  he  clipped 
the  end  and  he  was  most  fastidious  in  applying 
the  match.  Then,  "To  which  letter  do  you  refer, 
de  Grecque?  I  have  had  much  correspondence 
with  Randall,  correspondence  covering  several 
years." 

"To  the  important  letter  that  you  sent  him 
on  the  night  that  war  was  declared  against  Ger- 
many," said  de  Grecque. 

"You  are  quite  positive  of  the  date?" 

De  Grecque  smiled.     "Quite,"  he  stated. 

"And  the  nature  of  the  document  in  question?" 
Gryce's  voice  was  sardonic. 

De  Grecque  lowered  his  voice.  "Is  it  neces- 
sary that  I  remind  you?"  he  asked. 


188  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"You  were  using  poker  terms  a  moment  ago, 
de  Grecque,"  said  Gryce.  "Two  can  bluff,  you 
know." 

"Very  well.  In  it  you  wrote  Senator  Randall 
that  you  were  unalterably  opposed  to  war;  that 
you  were  specifically  opposed  to  this  war;  that 
you  considered  America's  entry  into  it  uncalled- 
for  and  unjust,  a  diabolical  crime  against  civilisa- 
tion, a  crime  for  which  the  President  was  solely 
responsible;  and  that  you  wanted  Randall  to  in- 
stitute impeachment  proceedings  against  the 
President  at  once.  You  went  further:  you 
asked  him,  as  labour's  voice  in  the  Senate,  to  call 
to  labour,  to  tell  them,  through  their  unions,  to 
protest  against  this  war  even  to  the  point  of  re- 
fusing to  do  any  work  whatsoever  until  the  decla- 
ration of  war  had  been  withdrawn." 

He  stared  at  Gryce's  impassive  face. 

"You  would  not  welcome  trial  of  your  patriot- 
ism if  that  letter  were  offered  in  evidence  of  your 
treason,  would  you?" 

"Indeed  not,"  said  Gryce.  "And  you — a  sol- 
dier who  had  fought  for  France — you  came  to 
me  after  that?  I  can  not  see  how  even  a  lover  of 
peace,  de  Grecque,  could  consort  with  one  who 
was  a  traitor,  not  in  military  theory,  but  in  con- 
crete fact.  You  have  never  mentioned  to  me 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL  189 

that  you  were  anti-French ;  you  merely  claimed  to 
be,  as  I  was,  anti-war." 

"We  are  men,"  snapped  de  Grecque.  "Why 
quibble?  Does  it  matter — these  motives  of 
mine?  I  knew  you;  you  must  have  guessed  at 
me.  And  listen,  Gryce !"  His  voice  rose  shrilly. 
"Your  daughter — what  manner  of  men  are  you 
Americans  ?  She  is  your  daughter,  and  yet  you 
permit  her  to  plot  against  us.  To-night  she " 

"Was  listening  at  a  dictaphone  in  a  private 
room  of  the  Royal  Restaurant,  eh?"  interrupted 
Gryce. 

De  Grecque's  eyes  narrowed.  "You  knew  it, 
Gryce?" 

The  publisher  puffed  at  his  cigar.  "No,  I  did 
not  know  it,  de  Grecque.  Not  at  the  time.  But 
to-night,  when  she  came  home,  she  told  me." 

"Yes?"  said  de  Grecque  softly. 

"That's  why  I  happened  to  be  awake  when 
you  telephoned  a  while  ago,  de  Grecque.  What 
she  said  was  insane,  but — well,  she  isn't  insane." 

"And  she  told  you  why  she  happened  to  be 
doing  this?" 

"She  will  tell  me  in  the  morning,"  said  Gryce. 

"And  then ?" 

Gryce  inhaled ;  his  huge  chest  stood  out  bigger 
than  ever. 

"Why,  then,  de  Grecque,  if  I  find  out  that  I've 


190  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

been  led  by  the  nose  to  the  brink  of  treason  by  a 
lot  of  pro-German  traitors,  if  I  find  that  my 
daughter  has  come  nearer  the  truth  through  her 
emotions  than  I  have  through  my  brains — why, 
then,  de  Grecque,  some  one  will  face  a  firing- 
squad." 

De  Grecque  nodded.  "A  right-about,  you 
would  call  it,  eh?" 

"With  the  accent  on  the  right"  said  Gryce. 
"If  I've  been  a  blind  fool — de  Grecque,  you  may 
be  a  sincere  and  honest  man.  To-night  I  do  not 
think  so.  I  think  that  my  blind  eyes  are  seeing. 
I  think  that  my  soul  is  hearing  a  cry  to  which 
my  ears  have  been  deaf." 

"Which  is  very  pretty,"  said  de  Grecque. 
"Loftiness  of  speech  always  appeals  to  me.  But 
—you  are  forgetting  the  letter  which  I  men- 
tioned a  while  ago.  You  speak  of  firing-squads. 
Would  not  one  of  them  reserve  a  few  moments 
for  the  author  of  that  letter?" 

"Unquestionably,"  assented  Gryce. 

"And  still  you  speak  in  threats.  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you,  Gryce." 

"Nor  do  I  understand  you,"  said  Gryce. 

"Then  I  shall  make  myself  very  clear,"  said 
de  Grecque.  "That  letter,  the  letter  which  you 
wrote  to  Senator  Randall,  is  in  my  possession." 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL  191 

"Would  you  mind  letting  me  look  at  it?"  asked 
Gryce. 

"So  that  you  could  destroy  it?" 

Gryce  shook  his  head.  "I  give  you  my  word, 
de  Grecque,  that  I  will  not  touch  it.  I  am 
merely  curious  to  see  a  forgery  that  has  been  im- 
posed upon  so  shrewd  a  man  as  the  Comte  de 
Grecque,  late  of  the  German  army,  and  so  capa- 
ble a  spy  that  he  is  entrusted  with  so  difficult  a 
role  as  the  one  you  have  chosen  to  play." 

If  de  Grecque  was  startled  he  did  not  show  it. 
Once  again  he  smiled.  "Now  we  are  approach- 
ing an  understanding.  It  is  threat  against 
threat,  eh  ?  I  expose  you  and  you  will  return  the 
compliment.  But,  Gryce,  I  am  not  a  silly  old 
man ;  I  am  of  the  German  army,  and  we  Germans 
do  not  fear  to  die." 

"Very  good,"  said  Gryce,  "I  do  fear  to  die. 
I  shall  dread  death  until  I  have  paid  in  double 
measure  the  trick  that  has  been  practised  upon 
me.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  know  that  one  has  been 
a  fool,  deluded,  blinded.  It  is  not  pleasant  to 
know  that  one's  honest  views  have  been  seized 
upon  by  spies  who  would  ruin  the  country  I  love. 
My  daughter  has  been  right.  I  have  been  wrong. 
I  am  a  silly  old  man,  de  Grecque — but — if  I  told 
you  that  I  still  packed  a  punch,  you  would  not 
understand  me.  Well,  that  is  slang.  And  I 


192  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

have  grown  too  far  away  from  slang — the  speech 
of  Americans.  I  shall  get  down  to  earth." 

"Still  bluffing,  eh?"  de  Grecque's  snarl  was  not 
good  to  see.  "Because  that  paper,  that  letter 
which  you  wrote  to  Randall,  can  not  be  produced 
by  me  this  moment " 

Gryce  smiled.  "A  good  poker  player  knows 
when  his  bluff  is  called,  de  Grecque.  But  what 
an  asinine  bluff!  Why  pretend  to  possess  such 
a  letter?" 

De  Grecque  stared  at  him;  he  nodded  slowly. 
"I  see  it,  this  Deems  was  employed  by  you. 
Naturally  he  brought  the  letter  back  to  you  and 
you  destroyed  it.  You  think  that  you  are  safe, 
eh?  We  shall  see,  Gryce." 

Gryce  shook  his  head  pityingly.  "You've 
been  dreaming,  de  Grecque.  But  then,  so  have 
I — and  now  will  you  kindly  step  aside  ?  Put  up 
your  gun!  The  people  in  this  hotel  know  me, 
you  idiot!  You  can't  get  away  with  anything 
like — old  man,  am  I?  Did  you  forget  that — I 
said — I — packed  a — punch?" 

De  Grecque  had  no  time  to  press  the  trigger. 
For  all  his  bulk  the  publisher  retained  some  of 
that  muscular  quickness  that  had  made  him  so 
formidable  an  athlete  years  ago.  De  Grecque 
was  a  child  in  his  hands.  The  revolver  was  torn 
from  his  grasp  in  a  moment. 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL 


His  almost-insane  eyes  rolling  until  their 
whites  showed  predominantly,  his  teeth  bared, 
de  Grecque  staggered  against  a  table.  For  a 
moment  the  two  men  faced  each  other.  Then, 
before  Gryce  could  raise  the  weapon,  de  Grecque 
was  out  of  the  room. 

Evidently  he  had  turned  a  corner  in  the  hotel 
corridor  and  used  the  stairs  as  a  means  of  descent, 
Gryce  decided.  He  kept  up  the  chase  only  to 
the  first  corner,  then  ran  back  to  de  Grecque's 
rooms.  He  called  up  the  office,  and  warned 
them  to  detain  the  fugitive.  But  twenty  minutes 
later  it  was  certain  that  de  Grecque  had  managed 
to  escape  by  a  side  entrance.  He  could  not  be 
found  in  the  hotel. 

The  house  detective,  learning  that  Gryce  had 
been  attacked,  offered  to  escort  the  publisher 
home.  But  Gryce  waved  aside  the  oifer.  He 
would  take  care  of  himself,  he  proudly  decided. 
By  Godfrey,  he  hadn't  lost  the  —  er  —  old  pep, 
yet! 

Nor,  on  second  thought,  did  he  think  it  wise 
to  inform  the  hotel  people  the  reason  for  de 
Grecque's  assault  upon  him.  To  set  the  police 
on  the  trail  before  he  had  conferred  with  Lydia 
might  be  to  interfere  with  her  plans.  How, 
he  could  not  imagine,  but  she  had  not  been  able 
to  explain  to  her  own  father  her  mysterious 


194  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

actions.  Anyway,  the  matter  could  wait  fifteen 
minutes,  and  it  was  a  shorter  journey  than  that 
from  the  Hotel  Gerald  to  his  own  home. 

He  was  a  power,  was  Gryce,  in  many  ways. 
To  his  intimation  that  nothing  need  be  said  to 
the  police  of  the  affair  in  the  rooms  of  the  Comte 
de  Grecque,  the  night  clerk  nodded  humble  as- 
sent ;  Stephen  Gryce  was  too  important  a  figure 
not  to  be  heeded. 

Outside,  Gryce  found  a  taxicab.  It  was  not 
until  he  found  himself  staring  into  the  eyes  of 
Deems  that  Gryce  found  time  to  regret  his  fail- 
ure to  accept  the  hotel  detective's  offer  of  escort. 
One  more  man  might  have  meant  the  capture  of 
the  assailants,  might  have  been  added  proof 
against  de  Grecque ;  for  that  de  Grecque  was  re- 
sponsible for  this  attack  Gryce  did  not  doubt  for 
a  moment. 

The  policeman  who  had  been  running  at  the 
beginning  of  the  struggle,  and  his  companion 
called  by  the  rat-a-tat  of  the  night-stick,  did  not 
detain  Gryce  long.  An  ordinary  attempt  at 
hold-up  they  concluded  it  was,  and  Gryce  said 
nothing  to  enlighten  them.  Then,  having  left 
the  officers  at  his  front  door,  Gryce  put  his  arm 
through  Deems's. 

"I  want  to  have  a  confab  with  you,  youngster," 
he  said. 


AMERICAN,  AFTER  ALL  195 

Together  they  entered  the  publisher's  man- 
sion. Once  again  Deems's  mind  was  too  con- 
fused for  him  to  utter  protest.  Lydia  Gryce 
was  a  traitor,  her  father  was  a  traitor,  and  yet — 
the  very  men  with  whom  he  believed  Gryce  to 
be  in  league  had  furnished  the  men  who  had  tried 
to  kill  the  publisher  to-night.  There  was  no  end 
to  contradiction.  Silently  he  followed  Gryce. 

The  aged  man-servant  whom  he  knew  from  his 
previous  visits  to  the  house,  headed  the  group  of 
servants  in  the  hall.  Ferguson  acted  as  spokes- 
man. 

"Mr.  Gryce!  Miss  Lydia — officers  came  and 
took  her.  They  accused  her  of  murder — she  is 
in  jail— 

His  jaw  almost  on  his  chest  Gryce  stared  at 
his  butler.  The  telephone  rang.  Mechanically, 
still  staring  at  Ferguson,  he  picked  up  the  instru- 
ment from  the  table  on  which  it  stood. 

"Hello,"  he  said. 

"Father,  this  is  Lydia.  Has  Ferguson  told 
you?  They  weren't  policemen.  And  I  got 
away.  I've  been  afraid  to  come  home.  They 
might  be  watching  the  house.  I'm  at  a  tele- 
phone in  a  lunch-room  up-town,  on  Seventh  Ave- 
nue, near  One  Hundred  and— 

Her  voice  suddenly  ceased.  "Where,  Lydia, 
where?"  cried  Gryce. 


196  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

She  did  not  answer.  Practically  Gryce  moved 
the  receiver  up  and  down. 

"Central,  I've  been  cut  off.  Ring  back  that 
number !" 

Five  minutes,  the  sweat  pouring  from  his  fore- 
head, he  waited.  Then  Central  told  him. 

"The  party  hung  up,  and  the  line  don't 
answer." 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

THE   CROOKED   TRAIL 

THROUGH  all  the  ages  weaklings  have  sought, 
outside  of  themselves,  surcease  from  the  ills  of 
humanity.  The  great  philosophers  have  taught 
and  retaught  that  within  ourselves  only  may  we 
find  solace  for  our  agony,  but  only  the  great,  the 
strong,  have  been  susceptible  to  their  teachings. 

Randolph  Fallen  was  not  great  or  strong. 
When  trouble,  a  minor  trouble,  first  came  to  him, 
his  spirit  was  not  big  enough  to  meet  it ;  he  turned 
to  liquor.  And  rarely  does  one  who  has  turned 
to  liquor  for  aid  relinquish  that  aid.  Fallon  was 
weak. 

At  first,  his  weakness  did  not  become  master 
of  the  man.  But  sooner  or  later  the  undefeated 
champion,  John  Barleycorn,  "gets"  whoever 
dares  to  pit  himself  against  it.  It  got  Fallon. 
And  swift  was  his  descent  into  degradation. 

Sloppy  sentimentalists  love  to  maintain  that 
the  average  victim  of  alcoholism,  or  other  drug, 
never  had  a  "chance."  But  chance  has  little  to 
do  with  the  unfortunates  of  Fallon's  stamp. 

197 


198  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Fallen  was  a  spiritual  coward.  He  had  become 
a  drunkard  because  he  was  incapable  of  gritting 
his  teeth  when  Fate  was  apparently  unkind  and 
of  forcing  Fate  to  be  kind. 

Like  every  other  drug-fiend,  he  had  convinced 
himself  that  life  had  been  unfair  to  him.  He  be- 
lieved that  the  universe  had  conspired  against 
him,  was  bent  on  dragging  him  down. 

And  now,  as  he  looked  about  the  shabby  room 
above  the  Bleecker  Street  saloon,  the  universe 
was  personified  in  Bob  Deems.  Through  the 
sodden  brain  of  Fallen  surged  the  hatred  of  the 
lost  for  the  saved.  But  for  the  young  man  of 
the  Record  staff,  Fallon  would  have  been  the 
possessor  of  ten  thousand  dollars.  With  ten 
thousand  dollars.  .  .  .  The  things  that  he  might 
have  done  with  it!  The  ease,  the  luxury.  .  .  . 
Deems  had  taken  these  things  away  from  him, 
Fallon,  who  was  rightfully  entitled  to  them. 
Had  it  been  perfectly  safe,  had  there  been  assur- 
ance of  no  requital  demanded,  Fallon  would 
gladly  have  killed  Deems  before  the  latter  could 
have  left  his  room. 

But  spiritual  cowardice  is  often  but  the  com- 
plement of  the  physical — Deems  left  Fallen's 
room  unharmed.  And  the  coward  tlvnks  more 
of  his  own  safety  than  he  does  of  revenge^ 

Liquor-soaked  though  he  was,  something  more 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL 


powerful  even  than  alcohol  worked  upon  Fal- 
lon's  brain — fear.  A  crime  had  been  committed 
to-day;  Fallen,  witness  of  that  crime,  had  ac- 
cepted blackmail  from  the  criminal.  Once 
Deems  showed  that  ten-thousand-dollar  check, 
which  Lydia  Gryce  had  given  to  the  driver  of  the 
taxicab,  to  the  police,  Fallon  would  be  headed 
for  Sing  Sing.  Unless,  of  course,  Fallon  should 
manage  to  disappear. 

To  disappear,  then,  was  Fallen's  one  thought. 
Downstairs,  in  the  custody  of  the  bartender,  was 
the  balance  of  the  money  that  Fallon  had  re- 
ceived from  the  sale  of  his  taxicab.  He  would 
get  that,  cross  over  into  Jersey,  catch  a  train  in 
the  morning.  Fluently  he  cursed  as  he  dragged 
himself  across  his  room  to  the  door.  He  had 
been  getting  along  well.  His  earnings  as  a  taxi- 
man  had  been  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  stupefy 
his  brain  of  nights,  and  that  was  all  that  Fallon 
asked  of  the  world.  All  that  he  had  asked  lately. 
To-night,  of  course,  he  had  once  again  dreamed 
great  dreams.  With  money  he  would  have  lei- 
sure. Deems  had  taken  from  him  his  one  last 
chance  of  rehabilitation.  Fallon  was  not  capable 
of  understanding  that  rehabilitation  must  come 
from  himself,  not  through  adventitious  aid. 

The  bartender   was   loath   to   surrender   the 


200  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

money  which  he  had  earlier  persuaded  Fallen  to 
surrender  to  him  for  safe-keeping. 

"Be  nice,  be  nice,"  he  said.  "You  don't  want 
to  go  out  again  to-night.  You'll  be  rolled  for 
the  wad  sure  as  sin,  Fallon." 

"Whose  money  is  it?"  demanded  Fallon. 

"It's  yours,  kid,  it's  yours,"  admitted  the  bar- 
tender. "But  whyn't  you  be  a  good  feller  and 
pound  your  ear  to-night?  I'm  your  friend,  ain't 
I?  I  wouldn't  be  advisin'  you  for  anythin'  ex- 
cept your  best  good,  would  I  ?" 

His  best  good!  Fallon  could  have  shrieked 
with  mirth.  What  did  this  ignorant  man  know 
of  good  or  evil?  His  only  ambition  was  to  own 
a  saloon  of  his  own.  Randolph  Fallon  had  once 
occupied  a  high  estate ;  he  had  been  a  good  news- 
paper man.  To-night,  staring  at  a  check  that 
meant  fortune  to  him,  h'e  had  seen  himself  grati- 
fying those  cultured  tastes  that  had  been  his  not 
so  many  years  ago;  he  had  seen  himself  begin- 
ning life  over  again,  climbing  to  the  heights.  In 
his  own  eyes  he  was  now  the  most  tragic  figure  in 
the  world.  He  was — at  least  he  would  be  within 
a  little  while — a  fugitive  from  justice.  And  he 
had  no  time  in  which  to  bandy  arguments  writh  a 
bartender. 

"You'll  give  me  my  money  or  I'll  bring  a  cop 
in  here,"  he  announced. 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  201 

The  bartender  shrugged.  It  was  none  of  his 
business.  If  Fallen  wished  to  make  a  fool  of 
himself  the  bartender  should  worry!  He  gave 
the  taxi-man  his  money.  With  a  grunt  Fallen 
took  it  and  left  the  saloon. 

Over  on  West  Broadway  was  the  elevated 
track.  As  rapidly  as  he  could,  Fallon  made  his 
way  east.  The  sooner  he  got  away  from  this 
neighbourhood  the  better  for  him.  The  police, 
informed  by  Deems,  would  be  on  his  trail.  And 
it  was  because  he  walked  so  fast  that  just  as  he 
was  about  to  mount  the  "L"  steps,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  loitering  Deems. 

Deems,  engrossed  in  his  mental  agony  at  cer- 
tainty of  Lydia  Gryce's  treachery,  was  almost 
aimless  in  his  progress.  And  fear  had  quickened 
the  wits  of  Randolph  Fallon.  It  was  not  so 
many  years  past  that  Fallon  had  been  a  good 
newspaper  man,  and  that  meant  that  he  had  been 
a  shrewd  observer.  All  of  his  powers  of  observa- 
tion had  not  left  him. 

His  foot  paused  on  the  first  step  of  the  flight 
leading  to  the  elevated  platform.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  whither  Deems  was  bound. 
The  Record  man  was  headed  north  now.  Every- 
thing considered,  it  was  rather  surprising  that 
he  had  been  able  to  catch  sight  of  Deems  at  all. 
Of  course,  Deems,  after  leaving  Fallon,  might 


202  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

have  delayed  to  telephone.  But  there  was  that 
about  his  walk  which  led  Fallon  to  believe  other- 
wise. A  man  on  important  business  does  not 
loiter,  and  Deems  was  loafing  along. 

Fallon  had  never  been  honest  to  the  bone  of 
him.  Liquor  had  robbed  him  of  what  judgment 
of  character  he  had  once  possessed.  ~No  longer 
did  he  believe  in  the  honesty  of  others.  There 
had  been  a  time  when,  though  crooked  himself, 
he  had  trusted  others.  Now  he  doubted  every 
one. 

Young  Deems  was  a  clever  young  chap;  no 
question  about  that.  And  a  clever  man  would 
perceive  the  possibilities  for  wealth  in  the  in- 
formation that  Deems  possessed  of  Lydia 
Gryce's  guilt.  Why,  Deems  was  a  Record  man, 
and  Stephen  Gryce  owned  the  Record!  Fallon 
sneered  at  himself.  What  a  fool  he  had  been 
to  think  himself  in  any  danger  from  the  police! 
Gryce  would  protect  his  daughter  from  scandal 
and  jail.  Even  young  Deems,  intended  victim 
of  the  girl's  murderous  intention,  had  been 
"reached"  by  the  publisher.  Fallon  could  see 
what  Deems  had  done.  In  some  manner  Deems 
had  discovered  the  identity  of  Lydia  Gryce;  he 
had  learned  from  the  girl  that  Fallon  had  black- 
mailed her;  he  had  gone  to  Fallon.  Why,  there 
wasn't  a  single  bit  of  evidence  against  the  girl 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  203 

now!  Only  Fallon's  word  for  it  that  she  had 
been  the  woman  to  visit  the  Lexington  Avenue 
bookshop  and  the  Irving  Place  lodging-house. 

Fallen  could  see  two  angles  to  the  affair  now. 
Deems,  in  consideration  of  money  from  Gryce, 
might  have  got  the  check  back  from  Fallen  in 
order  that  evidence  against  Gryce's  daughter 
would  not  exist.  Or,  and  this  held  appeal  to 
the  crooked  heart  of  Fallen,  Deems  might  wish  to 
do  a  little  blackmailing  himself.  The  Gryce 
girl's  check,  shown  to  her  father,  would  convince 
the  publisher  of  her  guilt.  He  might  write  his 
own  check  for  several  times  the  amount  that  his 
daughter  had  paid  for  hush  money. 

Indignation  possessed  Fallen;  the  righteous 
indignation  of  a  man  deceived.  He  would  go 
to  the  police  .  .  .  that  indignation  did  not  hold 
him  long.  If  Deems  denied  visiting  him,  or,  at 
any  rate,  denied  having  received  the  girl's  check 
from  him,  and  the  girl  denied  ever  having  visited 
the  two  places  where  she  had  been  to-day,  Fal- 
lon's word  would  not  have  much  weight.  His 
ability  to  frighten  Lydia  Gryce  did  not  mean 
that  he  would  be  able  to  convince  the  police  of 
her  guilt. 

Deems  was  playing  his  own  game.  What  an 
idiot  Fallon  had  been  to  think  that  a  Record  re- 
porter would  want  evidence,  for  publication,  of 


204  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

the  criminality  of  the  daughter  of  the  owner  of 
the  Record!  Fallon  had  been  rattled,  dazed, 
drunk.  Even  to  himself  the  taxi-man  would  not 
admit  that  his  fear  had  governed  his  actions  and 
obliterated  his  common-sense. 

But  what  was  Deems's  game?  It  would  be 
just  as  well  for  Fallon  to  find  that  out.  Indeed, 
it  was  vital  that  Fallon  find  it  out.  After  all, 
flight  from  New  York  was  the  last  thing  that 
Fallon  cared  for.  With  money  he  could  have 
turned  his  back  on  the  metropolis  forever  with- 
out regret.  The  metropolis,  he  felt,  had  used 
him  unkindly;  he  would  gladly  revenge  himself 
by  having  no  more  to  do  with  it.  But  with  only 
the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  his  taxi.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  hard  to  shadow  Deems.  Even  the 
legs  of  Fallon,  shaky  from  dissipation,  were  not 
taxed  by  the  pursuit.  He  was  within  a  half 
block  of  Deems  when  the  latter  hesitated  at  sight 
of  the  policeman  on  guard  near  Heinrich 
Graffe's  bookshop,  and  he  was  inside  a  taxi 
when  Deems  rode,  a  bit  later,  to  the  Royal  Res- 
taurant. He  was  still  behind  Deems  when  the 
newspaper  man  engaged  in  struggle  with  the  as- 
sailants of  Gryce,  and  with  eyes  that  shone  with 
hatred  watched  the  reporter  and  publisher  enter 
the  Gryce  mansion. 

For  a  moment  Fallon  hesitated.     But  coward- 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  205 

ice  won  the  battle  against  daring  that  was  waged 
within  his  heart.  He  had  surrendered  Lydia 
Gryce's  check  to  Deems.  Deems  and  Gryce  had 
put  up  a  considerable  battle  a  few  moments  ago. 
It  might  well  be  that  if  he  went  to  Gryce's  house 
and  threatened  the  publisher,  violence  would  be 
his  portion.  And  Fallon  had  no  stomach  for 
violence.  In  fact,  it  had  been  only  by  the  most 
desperate  effort  that,  observing  from  afar  the 
struggle  between  the  occupants  of  the  two  taxi- 
cabs,  he  refrained  from  running  away. 

Reluctantly,  he  turned  away,  but  all  thought 
of  leaving  the  city,  of  fleeing  from  the  police,  had 
left  his  mind.  To  buck  Stephen  Gryce — that 
was  a  big  job,  but — Fallon  took  stock.  He  had 
less  than  three  hundred  dollars.  He  could  not 
buy  another  taxicab.  He  had  spent,  in  prema- 
ture celebration,  too  much  of  the  money  he  had 
received.  Life  held  for  him  very  little,  un- 
less. .  .  . 

New  York,  it  is  almost  axiomatic  to  say,  never 
closes.  That  is,  the  criminal  element  always 
knows  of  places  where,  no  matter  how  tightly  the 
police  may  think  the  lid  is  shut  down,  they  may 
find  that  nourishment,  mental  and  liquid,  that 
they  think  they  need. 

Fallon,  as  a  taxi-driver,  knew  more  of  these 
places  than  he  had  ever  known  as  a  newspaper 


206  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

man.  And  his  nerve  called  for  stimulant. 
Hatred  and  excitement  had  muffled  the  call  un- 
til now,  but  he  could  not  concentrate  longer  with- 
out stimulant.  So  he  walked  rapidly  east  until, 
off  Third  Avenue,  he  came  to  the  side  door  of  a 
saloon. 

Admitted,  he  ordered  whiskey.  He  gulped 
the  first  one  but  the  second  he  consumed  more 
slowly.  He  had  been  intoxicated  already  to- 
night ;  now  he  was  fairly  sober ;  he  wished  to  re- 
main so. 

And  as  he  drank  he  studied  the  situation. 
Lydia  Gryce  had  tried  to  kill  Robert  Deems. 
Lydia  Gryce  had  given  him,  Randolph  Fallon, 
a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  to  insure  his  si- 
lence. Deems  had  taken  the  check  away  from 
Fallon,  had  paid  some  apparently  unimportant 
visits  and  then,  by  accident,  had  apparently  saved 
the  life  of  Stephen  Gryce.  He  was  now,  and 
had  been  ten  minutes  ago,  closeted  with  Gryce 
in  the  millionaire's  home. 

Exactly  what  did  it  all  mean?  Could  it  be 
that  Deems  had  "planted"  the  assault  upon 
Gryce  in  order  that  he  might  win  the  publisher's 
regard  by  a  well-timed  rescue?  And  then,  to 
clinch  that  regard,  did  Deems  intend  to  tell  of 
the  attack  made  upon  him  by  Gryce's  daughter, 
surrender  the  check,  the  evidence  of  her  guilt, 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  207 

and.  .  .  .  ?  Fallen  shook  his  head.  It  was  too 
much  for  him.  He  was  forced  to  admit  that  the 
affair  was  too  deep  for  him. 

He  ordered  a  third  drink  of  whiskey,  and  he 
used  this  as  he  had  the  first — he  gulped  it  down. 

Long  ago  he  had  known  how  to  judge  the  ef- 
fect of  liquor  upon  himself.  But  that  was  before 
liquor  had  openly  become  his  master ;  it  was  when 
he  had  thought,  like  all  drunkards  in  their  early 
stages,  that  liquor  was  his  slave. 

Excitement  and  fear  had  conspired  to  delude 
him  into  the  belief  that  he  was  sober.  But  this 
third  drink  rendered  him  intoxicated  again.  And 
in  certain  stages  of  intoxication  he  was  braver 
than  in  others. 

Deems  had  robbed  him  of  hope.  Deems  was 
probably  cashing  in  on  Gryce's  gratitude  by  now. 
Fallon  would  do  what  a  little  while  ago  he  had 
been  afraid  to  do ;  he  would  go  directly  to  Gryce 
and  demand  the  return  of  the  check  that  had 
been  taken  from  him.  More  than  that!  Ten 
thousand  dollars  was  picayune  money;  he'd  de- 
mand fifty,  and  he'd  get  it,  too. 

He  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  walked  from 
the  saloon.  He  did  not  know  that  the  money 
he  had  displayed  when  paying  for  his  drinks  had 
excited  the  cupidity  of  men  who  had  done  mur- 
der for  a  tenth  of  the  sum  that  he  had  upon  his 


208  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

person.  Quite  unaware  that  he  was  followed  he 
set  out  again  in  the  direction  whence  he  had  come, 
toward  the  home  of  Stephen  Gryce. 

At  Fourth  Avenue  those  who  followed  fell 
back  for  a  few  yards.  Their  victim  was  too  un- 
suspecting ;  perhaps  his  drunkenness  was  feigned, 
to  lead  them  on  to  their  own  destruction.  For 
even  a  drunken  man  is  too  wise  to  step  into  the 
shadow  of  a  doorway  where  he  invited  attack. 
It  would  be  the  part  of  discretion  to  wait  a  mo- 
ment. Half  way  down  the  block  they  waited. 
Moreover,  they  wished  no  witnesses. 

As  for  Fallen,  he  stared,  from  the  vantage  of 
his  doorway,  across  the  street  to  where,  in  the 
glare  of  an  electric  light,  a  girl  tinkered  with  the 
engine  of  her  runabout. 

She  was  a  handsome  girl,  so  far  as  could  be 
told  from  that  distance,  and  any  one  would  have 
admired  the  workmanlike  manner  in  which  she 
raised  the  hood  and  handled  her  tools.  But  not 
even  the  oddity  of  a  girl  fixing  an  engine  at  this 
time  in  the  morning  accounted  for  Fallen's  in- 
terest. The  girl  was  Lydia  Gryce. 

It  was  dark  where  he  stood;  she  was  in  the 
light.  She  could  not  possibly  see  him,  and  he 
was  certain  that  he  saw  her.  The  fact  that  his 
brain  was  obsessed  with  her  and  her  father  and 
young  Deems  could  not  account  for  his  recogni- 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  209 

tion.  It  was  the  girl  whom  he  had  driven  this 
afternoon,  the  girl  who  had  written  him  a  check 
for  a  small  fortune  this  evening. 

What  she  was  doing  here;  why  she  had  no 
chauffeur  with  her — those  were  matters  that 
could  wait.  Meantime — no,  he  would  not  accost 
her.  That  wouldn't  do.  But  he'd  follow  her. 
He  stepped  out  from  the  shelter  of  his  doorway. 
His  lifted  finger  halted  a  night-hawk  taxi. 
When  Lydia  Gryce,  her  engine  attended  to, 
started  off  again,  Fallen  was  right  behind  her. 

His  taxi-man  was  disgusted.  The  runabout 
sped  only  a  couple  of  blocks;  then  it  was  halted. 
Its  occupant  descended  from  the  machine  and 
entered,  evidently  with  a  latch-key,  a  small  house. 
It  looked  as  though  once  it  might  have  been  a 
stable,  remodelled  by  some  one  to  whom  econ- 
omy and  art  were  more  than  mere  acquaintances. 

Fallon  dismissed  the  taxi-man.  He  stood  a 
moment,  beset  by  indecision,  upon  the  pavement. 
But  Lydia  Gryce  was  only  a  girl.  Moreover, 
she  had  been  afraid  of  him  only  a  few  hours  ago. 
Doubtless  she  would  give  him  another  check. 
The  threat  that  had  been  effective  before  would 
be  no  less  effective  now.  Only — and  this  called 
for  thought — even  a  frightened  girl  will  refuse  a 
blackmailer  who  calls  too  often  or  too  soon. 
There  must  be  some  explanation  as  to  the  reason 


210  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

for  this  second  demand  upon  her.  And  the 
truth  would  not  do.  If  Lydia  Gryce  knew  that 
Deems  and  her  father  were  with  her.  ...  It  re- 
quired thought.  Fallon  regretted  his  three 
drinks  in  the  back  room  of  the  Third  Avenue  sa- 
loon. 

He  needed  to  think,  and  to  think  quickly  as 
well  as  clearly.  He  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
It  was  there,  the  prescription,  compounded 
mainly  of  morphine,  that  a  doctor  had  given  him 
a  year  ago.  Sparingly  did  Fallon  use  this  rem- 
edy for  "katzen jammer."  Liquor  had  him  in  its 
power ;  he  had  sense  enough  left  to  dread  the  mor- 
phine habit.  But  this  was  an  exceptional  occa- 
sion. He  must  think. 

He  retraced  his  steps  toward  Fourth  Avenue. 
An  all-night  drug-store  awaited  him  there.    He 
entered;  the  druggist  read  the  prescription,  eyed 
the  man  who  presented  it,  shrugged,  and— 
Fallon  gulped  down  the  drink  prepared  for  him. 

His  heated  imagination  made  him  believe  that 
its  effect  was  instantaneous.  He  seemed  to  have 
regained  clarity  of  thought  at  once.  He  left  the 
drug-store  almost  immediately. 

And  so  it  was  that  those  who  had  followed  him 
from  the  back  room  ran  across  him  again. 

Having  seen  him  pause  a  few  moments  in  a 
doorway,  suspicion  had  held  them  back.  And 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  211 

then  he  had  entered  a  passing  taxi  and  been 
whisked  away.  He  had  vanished  from  their 
thoughts,  but  business  was  business.  Now  that 
they  were  out  upon  the  trail  of  easy  prey,  they 
would  not  relinquish  the  quest  merely  because 
one  victim  had  eluded  them. 

Then,  propitiously,  as  they  moved  toward 
Fifth  Avenue,  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  belated 
wanderer,  they  overtook  Fallon.  Not  every  one 
would  serve  their  purposes.  It  was  advisable, 
when  one  risked  jail  or  the  chair,  to  be  sure  of 
the  probability  of  profit.  But  this  man — they 
had  seen  his  bankroll ! 

They  wasted  little  time.  Almost  before  he 
sank  to  the  ground  deft  fingers  were  running 
through  his  pockets,  had  relieved  him  of  their 
contents. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 


"HEMMED  IN' 


STEPHEN  GRYCE  had  not  become  publisher  of  a 
chain  of  newspapers  without  learning  to  control 
himself.  His  first  impulse,  when  Central  told 
him  that  the  line  did  not  answer,  was  to  order  a 
car,  and  race  up-town,  to  look  into  every  lunch- 
room on  Seventh  Avenue,  from  One  Hundredth 
Street  north.  But,  aside  from  the  perspiration 
that  streamed  down  his  forehead,  and  the  anx- 
ious look  in  his  ordinarily  too-complacent  eyes, 
it  was  the  normal  Stephen  Gryce,  cool,  master 
of  the  situation  and  himself,  that  turned  to  Fer- 
guson : 

"Tell  it  to  me,  Ferguson,  from  the  begin- 
ning," he  said  quietly. 

His  own  calm  soothed  Ferguson. 

"There  ain't  much,  Mr.  Gryce,"  said  the  man- 
servant, "to  tell  you.  Some  policemen  came  here 
just  after  you  went  out  to-night.  They  asked 
for  Miss  Lydia,  sir.  And  they  arrested  her  as 
soon  as  she  came  downstairs.  They  said  there 
was  a  charge  against  her  of  doing  bomb-work. 

212 


"HEMMED  IN"  213 


She  asked  them  for  their  warrant.  One  of  the 
men  told  her  that  they  didn't  need  a  warrant. 
I  advised  her  to  insist.  Then  they  reached  for 
her,  and  I — I  interfered,  and  they  knocked  me 
down — and  she  told  them  she'd  go.  And  she 
did.  She  got  into  a  small  car  with  one  of  the 
men — the  leader,  he  seemed  to  be — and  the  other 
men  followed  her  in  a  big  car.  And — that's  all, 
sir." 

Gryce  nodded  his  head  slowly.  The  man  who 
succeeds  greatly  must  have  the  faculty  of  ra- 
tionally treating  every  situation  as  it  arises.  So 
Gryce,  apparently,  treated  this  one.  Most 
fathers  would,  as  Deems  phrased  it  in  his 
thoughts,  have  "hit  the  ceiling."  But  Gryce  was 
the  coolest  man  in  the  room,  outwardly. 

"And  Lydia  just  said  that  they  weren't  po- 
licemen," he  said  thoughtfully.  "They  charged 
her  with — bomb-work,  you  called  it?" 

Ferguson  nodded  assent.  Over  Gryce's  ordi- 
narily ruddy  face  spread  pallor.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  de  Grecque  to-night.  .  .  .  Lydia  had 
been  right  all  along.  He,  simple-minded  fool. 
...  But  self -recrimination  could  wait.  He 
turned  to  Deems. 

"What's  Commissioner  Grant's  private  num- 
ber? Happen  to  know?"  he  asked. 

Deems  did  know.     In  every  newspaper  office 


214  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

is  a  list  of  the  numbers  of  those  telephones  which 
are  not  to  be  found  in  the  ordinary  telephone  di- 
rectory. And  among  those  written  in  Deems's 
note-book  was  that  of  Police  Commissioner 
Grant.  But  he  did  not  reach  for  his  note-book. 

"Why  do  you  want  it?"  he  countered. 

Gryce  stared  at  him.  The  veins  on  his  fore- 
head were  slightly  swollen.  It  was  only  by  the 
mightiest  effort  that  he  was  retaining  self-con- 
trol, and  the  slightest  opposition  was  almost 
enough  to  render  him  frantic  with  wrath.  But 
this  young  man  whom  he  employed  had  but  a 
few  moments  ago  saved  the  publisher's  life. 
Gryce  held  back  his  fierce  retort. 

"I'm  going  to  do  a  fairly  obvious  thing, 
Deems,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  have  the  Com- 
missioner detail  every  man  on  his  force " 

"Suppose,  Mr.  Gryce,  that  you  give  me  a  mo- 
ment alone,"  suggested  Deems. 

Puzzlement  was  in  the  publisher's  eyes.  But 
young  Deems's  work  was  known  to  him;  the 
youth  was  nobody's  fool;  he  could  wait  a  mo- 
ment. 

In  the  little  reception  room  off  the  hall  Deems 
faced  the  big  man.  Silently  he  handed  Gryce 
the  check  that  Lydia  Gryce  had  given  Fallen, 
and  that  Fallon  had  surrendered  to  him.  Gryce 
looked  at  it.  He  turned  it  over  in  his  hands. 


"HEMMED  IN"  215 


"Well,  what  of  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Fallen  used  to  be  on  the  Record,  I  think, 
Mr.  Gryce." 

"Well?     Is  that  any  reason " 

"He's  now  driving  a  taxicab.  But  his  news- 
paper experience  taught  him  the  value  of  news; 
even  the  value  of  the  suppression  of  news." 

Gryce's  big  fists  doubled.  "Deems,  get  down 
to  cases !  My  daughter " 

"I  will,"  said  Deems.  "To-day  Fallen  drove 
your  daughter  to  a  bookshop  on  Lexington 
Avenue.  She  left  a  bomb  there.  He  also  drove 
her  to  my  lodgings  on  Irving  Place;  she  left  a 
bomb  there.  It  exploded,  wrecking  the  build- 
ing " 

Gryce  took  a  step  toward  the  reporter;  his 
right  fist  was  raised  menacingly. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  softly;  "if  you  aren't 
yery  careful " 

"I'm  telling  you  the  truth,  sir,"  cried  Deems. 
"The  absolute  truth!  And  Fallon  got  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  from  your  daughter " 

"You  mean  that  she  submitted  to  blackmail? 
My  daughter?  Why,  you — I  get  it,"  he  sud- 
denly sneered.  "Maybe  you  think  that  you  can 
put  something  over,  too?  What's  your  price? 
Your  little  game?" 


216  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"I  took  the  check  away  from  Fallen,"  replied 
Deems,  flushing. 

"To  get  a  bigger  one  from  me,  eh?" 

Deems  bit  his  lip.  "Let's  not  quarrel,  Mr. 
Gryce." 

"Not  quarrel?  When  you  insinuate — insinu- 
ate hell !  You  have  the  nerve  to  tell  me  that  my 
daughter  tried  to  kill  you !  My  daughter,  whom 
I  love!" 

"No  more  than  I  do,"  said  Deems. 

As  though  the  newspaper  man  were  some  curi- 
ous insect,  not  necessarily  repulsive,  but  absurd, 
Gryce  stared  at  his  employe  until  the  flush  of 
Deems  seemed  to  burn.  Suddenly  Gryce 
laughed. 

"You  love  her,  eh?  That's  why  you  accuse 
her  of  mur " 

"That's  why  I  don't  want  you  to  telephone  the 
police,"  interrupted  Deems  hotly.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  start  something  that  can't  be  finished 
right.  And  just  now,  I  don't  know " 

"You  don't  know,  eh?  Well,  I  know,"  roared 
Gryce.  "I  know  that  my  little  girl  has  been 
trapped  by  a  bunch  of  traitors,  a  gang  of  trea- 
sonable snakes  that  I'll  put  on  the  griddle  if  it's 
the  last  act " 

He  stopped  short;  over  Deems's  face  had 
spread  bewilderment,  honest  bewilderment. 


"HEMMED  IN"  217 


"I  suppose,"  went  on  Gryce,  after  a  second, 
"that  you're  surprised  to  hear  me  talk  this  way? 
I  suppose  that  the  whole  country  has  me  written 
down  as  a  damned  pro-German?  Well,  the  coun- 
try will  think  differently  in  another  day.  And 
de  Grecque  and  the  rest  of  his  scheming 
bunch- 

"De  Grecque!"  Deems  eyed  the  publisher. 
"Look  here,  Mr.  Gryce,  do  you  mean  what  you 
are  saying  about  de  Grecque?" 

"Mean  it?    D'ye  think  I'd  lie?" 

Deems  shook  his  head.  "N-o,  I  don't  suppose 
so,"  he  admitted. 

"You  don't  suppose  so?"  Gryce  took  another 
step  toward  the  reporter.  Then  his  body  seemed 
to  sag;  the  fire  went  out  of  his  glance.  "I  de- 
serve it,  I  reckon.  I've  been  so  badly  fooled; 
I've  been  so  blind — I  can't  blame  you  for  doubt- 
ing me,  when  de  Grecque  himself  threatened  to 
expose  me,  tried  to  scare  me  by  saying  that  he 
had  a  letter  I'd  signed " 

"And  he  hasn't?    You're  sure?" 

Gryce  shrugged.  "I  suppose,  in  justice  to 
you,  I've  got  to  take  this  sort  of  thing,  hear  this 
sort  of  questioning.  You  have  every  right  to 
doubt  me — if  you  know  what  sort  de  Grecque 
is.  And  how  do  you  know?"  he  demanded. 

Deems   shook  his  head  impatiently.     "That 


218  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

doesn't  matter  now.  That  paper  de  Grecque 
said  you  signed " 

"I  never  signed  a  paper  in  my  life  that  I'm 
not  willing  the  whole  world  should  read,"  cried 
Gryce. 

"But  your  daughter  said " 

"My  daughter  said  what?"  But  even  as  he 
uttered  the  question  Gryce  remembered  that 
Lydia  had  mentioned  that  paper,  too,  and  there 
had  been  in  her  eyes  something  close  to  contempt 
when  he  denied  knowledge  of  the  document. 

"Deems,  how  do  you  happen  to  know  what  my 
daughter  said?  What  made  you  think  that  I'd 
ever  signed  an  incriminating  document?  My 
God,  de  Grecque  seemed  to  think  I  had,  though 
he  couldn't  produce  the  paper."  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  forehead. 

Deems  was  a  young  man,  but  his  experience 
was  vast.  Few  people  had  managed  to  deceive 
him.  And  Gryce — the  man  was  most  palpably 
honest.  Despite  all  that  he  had  suspected,  all 
that  Rogan  had  suspected,  their  suspicions  had 
been  unfounded.  Gryce  was  no  traitor.  Deems 
made  no  effort  to  hide  the  expression  on  his  face, 
and  Gryce,  himself  shrewd  save  when  his  en- 
thusiasm led  him  too  far,  saw  the  younger  man's 
bewilderment. 

"How  do  you  come  into  this,  Deems?"  he  de- 


"HEMMED  IN"  219 


manded.  "What  do  you  know  of  de  Grecque? 
And  of  my  daughter?  Do  you  know  that  she 
has  been  doing  some  sort  of  government  work, 
the  sort  of  work  that  would  make  de  Grecque 
willing  to  risk  his  neck  to  defeat  her?" 

"You  know  that?  I  mean,  you're  sure  of  it?" 
queried  Deems. 

The  foundations  of  his  house  of  suspicion  had 
given  way ;  the  whole  edifice  was  tumbling  to  the 
ground.  Gryce  was  no  traitor,  that  he  would 
have  staked  his  soul,  was  true.  And  Gryce  said 
that  his  daughter  was  doing  government  work. 

"Know  it?  She  had  a  dictaphone  in  the  Royal 
Restaurant  to-night,  so  that  she  could  overhear 
de  Grecque  and  his  gang.  She  told  me  so,  and 
I — didn't  believe  her.  But  now — I  know  she 
told  the  truth.  De  Grecque  himself — you  saw 
those  men,  the  men  you  saved  me  from?  De 
Grecque's  men!" 

It  was  all  consistent.  Lydia  Gryce  might 
very  well  have  been  working  for  the  government 
and  distrusting  Rogan,  and  doubtful  of  her 
father.  Save  for  the  bombs! 

"Those  bombs,"  suggested  Deems. 

Gryce  looked  at  him.  "You  believe  that  she 
tried  to  kill  you?" 

Deems  looked  at  the  check  in  the  millionaire's 
hand.  It  was  the  irrefutable  proof  of  the  guilt 


220  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

of  Lydia  Gryce.  There  could  be  no  answer  to 
that  proof.  And  yet — it  was  not  proof.  There 
could  be  no  proof  against  Lydia  Gryce! 

"You  think  she's  a  murderess  and  still  you  tell 
me  that  you  love  her?  And  where  do  you  get 
off  to  love  her?"  Gryce  cried.  "Has  she  ever 
looked  at " 

Deems  grinned.  "Just  now,"  he  said,  "sup- 
pose we  postpone  that  argument.  No,  she 
doesn't  dream  of  how  I  feel.  And  you're  not 
ever  to  tell  her.  I'm  presumptuous — Mr.  Gryce, 
she  just  told  you  that  the  men  who  took  her 
away  were  not  policemen.  Yet  they  knew  of  the 
bomb  business.  Call  your  butler  in  here." 

Gryce  stepped  to  the  door;  in  a  moment  the 
white-faced  Ferguson  was  in  the  room.  Gently, 
lest  he  confuse  the  old  man,  with  a  tact  that  made 
Gryce's  respect  for  the  young  man  grow,  Deems 
questioned  the  man-servant.  And  at  the  end  of 
the  questioning  he  had  come  to  the  only  possible 
conclusion. 

The  leader  of  the  men  who  had  abducted  Lydia 
Gryce  was  Rogan!  Ferguson  could  not  have 
been  mistaken;  he  described  Rogan  too  well. 
Further — who  else  knew  of  Lydia's  guilt  in  the 
bomb  matter?  There  was  little  chance  that  de 
Grecque  could  have  known  of  it.  It  was  Rogan 
who  knew  of  it,  Rogan  who  had  seized  the  girl, 


"HEMMED  IN"  221 


Rogan  who  had  betrayed  Deems!  And  it  all 
fitted  in  with  certain  dormant  suspicions  that 
Deems  had  held. 

Why  had  Rogan  been  so  unable  to  tell  Deems 
his  real  aims,  and  who  was  behind  him  in  those 
aims?  More  than  once  Deems  had  been  doubt- 
ful of  the  Secret  Service  man.  It  was  absurd 
that  Rogan  should  be  a  traitor — why  had  he  en- 
listed Deems's  aid?  And  yet 

"I  know  the  man  who  took  Miss  Gryce  away," 
he  told  the  publisher. 

"You  know  a  lot,"  said  Gryce.  "Suppose  you 
begin  to  tell  me  something  of  what  you  know." 

Rapidly  Deems  talked.  Gryce  was  loyal.  It 
amounted  to  no  breach  of  faith  for  him  to  tell 
Gryce  everything  now,  especially  since  Rogan's 
status  was  now  doubtful.  And  tensely  the  pub-* 
lisher  listened. 

He  inhaled  deeply  as  Deems  finished.  His 
mouth,  always  firm,  but  of  late  years  holding  a 
hint  of  tolerance  that  might  have  led  to  weak- 
ness, was  harsh,  forbidding,  now. 

"I've  been  the  blindest  fool  that  ever  lived, 
Deems,"  he  said.  "I  admit  it.  I'm  going  to 
admit  it  to  the  whole  world.  But  that  I  should 
have  been  thought  capable  of  treason " 

"When  the  life  of  a  nation  is  at  stake,  Mr. 
Gryce,"  Deems  reminded  him,  "people  haven't 


222  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

time  to  split  hairs,  to  analyse  what  lies  behind  ap- 
pearances.    It's  a  case  of  'with  us'  or  'against 


us.' 


Gryce  nodded.  "And  now — because  I  was 
blind — my  little  girl  is — this  man  Rogan?  You 
think  he  might  be  treacherous?" 

Deems  shrugged.  "God  knows,  Mr.  Gryce. 
He  took  her  from  here " 

"And  she  got  away,"  interrupted  Gryce. 
"And  no  de  Grecque " 

The  telephone,  jangling  in  the  hall,  stopped 
him.  He  answered  it  himself,  brushing  by  Fer- 
guson. It  was  de  Grecque  talking. 

"Are  you  willing  now  to  come  to  terms  with 
me?"  demanded  de  Grecque. 

"To  terms  with  you?  I'll  see  you  damned  for- 
ever first,"  cried  Gryce. 

"So?  And  your  daughter?  What  about  her? 
Suppose  I — do  things  to  her,  Mr.  Gryce,  that 
will  not  look  well?" 

Gryce's  rage  choked  him. 

"You  touch  her,"  he  spluttered,  "and " 

In  his  impotence  the  threat  was  left  unuttered. 
De  Grecque,  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  laughed. 

"You  will  do— what,  Mr.  Gryce?  Shall  I 
tell  you  ?  Then  I  will ;  you  will  do  nothing,  Mr. 
Gryce.  Now  listen.  I  have  not  too  much  time 
to  waste  on  you.  I  want  to  know " 


"HEMMED  IN"  223 


"Put  my  daughter  on  the  'phone,"  cried  Gryce. 

"It  is  not  necessary.  You  know  that  she  is 
here,"  answered  de  Grecque. 

Deems,  watching  eagerly,  could  see  the  ex- 
pression of  relief  on  the  publisher's  face. 

"Know  it?  I  have  only  your  word  for  it,  de 
Grecque,  and  the  word  of  a  mangy  rat  is — the 
word  of  a  mangy  rat." 

"Your  daughter  will  pay  for  that,"  said  de 
Grecque. 

Gryce  laughed.  "She  isn't  with  you,"  he 
cried.  "If  she  were  you'd  be  torturing  her  now. 
That  would  be  about  your  size,  de  Grecque. 
Now,  listen ;  you  can't  make  any  terms  with  me. 
I  know  your  whole  crowd.  And  the  name  of 
every  last  one  of  them,  and  proofs  of  what  you 
intend,  will  be  in  the  hands  of  the  police  to-night. 
That's  all." 

He  hung  up  before  Deems  could  stop  him. 

"Is  that  wise?"  demanded  Deems. 

"Why  not?"  retorted  Gryce.  "Lydia  isn't 
with  them.  I  know  de  Grecque;  he  was  bluff- 
ing." 

"Then  where  is  she?  What  made  her  ring 
off?" 

Gryce  shrugged.  "God  knows.  But — de 
Grecque  hasn't  her  yet." 


224  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"But  if  he  should — if  some  of  his  crowd  are 
taking  her  to  him " 

Appalled,  Deems's  voice  died  away,  for 
Gryce's  face  was  set  like  granite. 

"Even  so,  Deems.  The  sins  of  the  father — I 
have  sinned.  Not  intentionally,  but — to  be  a 
fool  is  to  be  a  sinner.  In  effect  I  have  been  dis- 
loyal, for  I  have  consorted  with,  encouraged 
traitors.  To  make  terms  with  de  Grecque  would 
mean  that  I  permitted  evil  to  be  done  to  my  coun- 
try. And  not  even  for  Lydia,  and  I  love  her 
better  than  life,  would  I  permit  my  country  to 
suffer.  What's  Commissioner  Grant's  number? 
The  police  must  find  her.  As  for  the  check  she 
gave  Fallen,  your  evidence  against  her — she'll 
explain  that.  My  girl  is  no  criminal.  And  she 
isn't  insane,  either.  What's  the  number?" 

Deems  gave  it  to  him.  Gryce  advanced  to  the 
'phone  again.  He  spoke  to  the  girl  who  an- 
swered. And  then  the  fingers  that  gripped  the 
receiver  tightened  until  the  cords  of  his  wrist 
stood  out  rigidly.  For  de  Grecque  spoke  to  him. 

"Mr.  Gryce,  eh?  Perhaps  now  you  will  re- 
consider your  determination  to  treat  with  me, 
eh?  Or  perhaps  you  consider  it  accident  that  I 
answer  the  telephone?  So.  Try  again  then, 
Mr.  Gryce." 

Dumbly  Gryce  hung  up.     He  walked  to  his 


"HEMMED  IN"  225 


library,  followed  by  the  wondering  Deems.  Here 
was  his  private  wire,  the  wire  that  connected  only 
with  the  Record  office.  From  the  Record  office 
he  could  be  connected  with  Commissioner  Grant. 

But  even  as  the  hook  clicked  as  he  picked  up 
the  receiver,  he  heard  again  the  voice  of  de 
Grecque. 

"You  are  beginning  to  understand,  are  you 
not,  Mr.  Gryce,  that  those  who  oppose  us  must 
reckon  with  us,  eh?  You  would  communicate 
with  your  office.  Mr.  Gryce,  you  communicate 
with  no  one  in  this  world,  except  with  my  con- 
sent." 

Once  again,  without  argument,  Gryce  hung 
up  the  'phone.  He  was  a  doer,  not  a  talker. 
Time  enough  to  talk  to  de  Grecque  when  he 
had  won  the  fight. 

"Deems,"  he  said,  quietly,  "they've  cut  off  our 
'phone  connections.  Which  makes  me  think: 
Lydia  may  not  have  been  captured  by  them.  She 
got  away  once,  evidently.  Perhaps  de  Grecque's 
people  cut  in  on  our  wires  while  she  was  talk- 
ing to  me.  The  girl  who  told  me  that  the  party 
didn't  answer — same  voice  as  the  girl  who  an- 
swered just  now  when  I  asked  for  Grant's  num- 
ber. In  with  de  Grecque.  Lydia — she's  safe. 
I  know  she's  safe.  As  for  us " 

He  stood  a  moment  looking  down  at  the  floor. 


226  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Then  he  lifted  his  head.  "De  Grecque  will  stop 
at  nothing.  He's  tried  murder  twice  to-night; 

he'll  try  it  again.  Suppose "  He  walked  to 

the  library  window.  He  knelt  upon  the  floor. 
He  made  a  gesture  to  Deems.  Even  in  this  mo- 
ment of  stress  Gryce  could  appreciate  Deems's 
quick  wit,  for  the  young  man  understood  in- 
stantly. He  turned  off  the  electric  lights.  In 
the  darkness  the  two  men  knelt  by  the  window. 
They  could  see,  clearly  enough  outlined  by  the 
street-lamps,  a  group  of  men  on  the  corner.  An- 
other group  stood  on  the  far  corner.  They 
seemed  idlers,  chatting  sociably.  But  men  do 
not  gather,  just  off  Fifth  Avenue,  long  after 
midnight,  merely  to  chat  idly. 

"De  Grecque  doesn't  give  up  easily,  Deems," 
said  Gryce. 

There  was  no  fear  in  the  big  publisher's  voice ; 
the  hand  that  he  laid  upon  Deems's  shoulder 
trembled  not  at  all.  And  in  the  darkness  Deems 
could  see  that  Gryce's  eyes  glistened.  Deems 
understood  now  the  meaning  of  the  phrase,  "the 
light  of  battle." 

Errors  the  big  publisher  had  made;  there  was 
no  denying  that,  and  little  extenuating  it.  But 
the  error  that  had  brought  Deems  into  intrigue 
against  him  had  been  an  error  of  the  head. 
Gryce's  heart  was  in  the  right  place. 


"HEMMED  IN"  227 


"Youngster,"  said  Gryce,  "there's  just  a 
chance  that  de  Grecque  is  going  to  get  away  with 
it.  Armed?" 

Deems's  fist  snuggled  tenderly  about  the  auto- 
matic in  his  pocket. 

"Yes,  sir'3  he  declared.  "Eight  shots.  I 
ought  to  get  one  before  they  pot  me,  eh?  And 

you?" 

Gryce  shook  his  head.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
guffawed.  "Took  a  gun  away  from  de  Grecque 
and  carried  it  all  through  a  lovely  scrap,  and  for- 
got it!  But  I  have  it  now." 

He  produced,  from  the  pocket  where  he  had 
thrust  it,  de  Grecque's  weapon.  He  examined 
the  mechanism.  "Six  bullets,"  he  announced, 
"and  once,  a  long,  long  time  ago,  son,  I  could 
hit  the  side  of  a  barn  door.  We  ain't  dead  yet, 
youngster." 

"Not  so's  you'd  notice  it,"  chuckled  Deems. 

He  was  infected  with  the  other's  enthusiasm. 
For  a  pacifist,  Gryce  was  certainly  pugnacious. 
Gryce  answered  his  unspoken  comment. 

"Funny,  I've  always  been  against  bloodshed," 
he  said,  "against  other  people  shedding  blood, 
anyway.  As  for  myself — son,  if  I  knew  where 
Lydia  is — knew  that  she  is  safe — I'd  begin  to 
perk  up  and  enjoy  this  little  party." 

And  then  he  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet.    Unmo- 


228  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

lested,  swinging  a  nightstick,  a  policeman  came 
down  the  street.  He  passed  by  the  group  on 
the  nearest  corner  and  paused  in  front  of  the 
Gryce  mansion. 

The  publisher  threw  up  the  window.  "Offi- 
cer!" he  cried. 

The  uniformed  man  looked  up.  "Well?"  he 
inquired. 

Gryce's  voice  shook  in  triumph. 

"Signal  for  help,  officer!  That  gang  on  the 
corner — they're  here  for  murder " 

The  policeman  slowly  turned  on  his  heel.  He 
stared  at  the  group  on  the  corner. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  "that  you  wait  a  few  min- 
utes. Mr.  de  Grecque  will  be  here  then, 
and " 

Gryce  turned  back  from  the  window,  away 
from  the  leering  smile  of  the  counterfeit  police- 
man. He  looked  at  Deems. 

"Son,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  I  ever  get  out  of 
here — I've  laughed  at  all  this  talk  of  German 
organisation,  right  here  in  the  old  U.  S.,  but— 
I've  been  a  fool.     Still,  I'm  not  such  an  awful 
fool  at  that.     You  get  what  they've  done,  eh?" 

"Overpowered  the  policemen  on  the  beat 
around  here,  and  substituted  their  own  men," 
said  Deems.  "Suppose  we  take  a  shot  at  them 
now.  Why  wait  for  them  to  start  anything?" 


"HEMMED  IN"  229 


Gryce  chuckled.  "Lots  of  time,  son,  lots  of 
time.  Personally,  I  want  to  save  every  shot  I 
have  for  de  Grecque.  I  have  a  sort  of  miserable 
little  hunch  that  before  the  game  is  over  that  gen- 
tleman will  get  his — needin's." 

What  a  human  old  person  the  publisher  of  the 
Record  was!  Deems  eyed  him  admiringly.  He 
bulked  big  in  the  semi-dark  of  the  room.  And 
the  hand  that  poured  a  drink  was  as  steady  as 
the  building  that  housed  the  Record. 

"Not  that  we  need  it,  son,  but  it  might  go  to 
waste.  Here's  to  you.  And  to  the  party  that 
lies  ahead." 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

DE   GEECQUE   ENTERS 

FALLON  looked  about  him.  His  surroundings 
were  not  as  unfamiliar  as  he  might  have  wished ; 
a  cell  in  a  police  station.  He  had  spent  nights 
in  them  before  this,  and  been,  to  his  own  figur- 
ing at  least,  none  the  worse  for  the  experience. 

But  suddenly,  through  his  bruised  head  there 
percolated  remembrance  of  the  circumstances 
leading  to  this  incarceration.  He  sat  bolt-up- 
right upon  the  hard  bunk.  Swiftly  he  felt  in 
his  pockets;  they  were  empty,  and  black  despair 
settled  upon  him.  But  only  for  a  moment.  The 
police  might  have  rescued  him — he  remembered 
a  rush  of  stealthy  feet  and  a  blow  upon  his  head 
— before  the  thugs  had  been  through  his  pock- 
ets. His  money  might  be  in  the  custody  of  the 
police,  as  was  his  body. 

For  a  moment,  on  his  brief  way  to  the  cell 
door,  he  paused.  It  might  be  that  he  had  been 
arrested  for  blackmailing  Lydia  Gryce.  But  it 
couldn't  be  that.  He'd  been  slugged  and 
"rolled"  also,  perhaps,  by  thugs. 

230 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  231 

He  shook  the  cell  door.  To  the  warder  who 
threateningly  approached  him  he  made  complaint 
about  his  missing  money. 

"Think  we  nicked  you,  eh?"  snarled  the  war- 
der. "Fine  compliment  you're  paying  us.  You 
need  a  jolt  on  the  jaw  to  knock  sense  into  you. 
I've  a  mind  to  hand  it  to  you.  Git  back  on  your 
bunk." 

Meekly  Fallon  obeyed.  He'd  been  robbed, 
then.  But  why  should  he,  the  victim  of  foot- 
pads, be  locked  in  a  cell?  Indignation  pos- 
sessed him.  He'd  demand  his  freedom.  But 
freedom  wasn't  much  to  a  man  who  was  penni- 
less. Penniless!  His  means  of  livelihood  was 
gone;  the  world  had  nothing  for  him  save — re- 
venge. That  was  what  it  held  for  him,  and  by 
everything  unholy  he'd  have  it. 

He  forgot  the  threats  of  the  warder,  and  once 
again  he  shook  the  door  of  his  cell  until  prison- 
ers in  adjoining  cells  lifted  their  sleepy  voices  in 
protest.  The  warder  came  running. 

"We've  got  a  special  'tremens'  treatment 
here,"  he  said,  angrily,  "and  you're  just  the  baby 
we'll  try  it  out  on.  We  use  a  hose  and  it  works 
fine.  Come  on  and  try  it." 

"Don't  kid  me,"  said  Fallon.  He  had  been  a 
good  newspaper  man  in  his  day  and  he  knew  po- 
licemen. He  knew  how  readily  many  of  them 


232  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

yield  to  the  authoritative  manner.  "I've  just 
remembered  how  I  happened  to  land  here.  You'll 
have  a  fine  time  explaining  to  the  Commissioner 
why  you  put  the  victim  of  an  assault  in  a  cell." 

"Assault?"  The  warder  laughed.  "You  call 
that  love-tap  an  assault.  If  you  hadn't  been 
boiled  to  the  eyes  you'd  never  felt  it." 

"Never  mind  that  talk,"  snapped  Fallon.  "I 
want  to  be  taken  to  Headquarters  at  once." 

"Is  that  so?  Don't  want  us  to  wake  up  the 
Commish  for  you,  do  you?"  he  was  heavily  sar- 
castic. 

"You'll  find  out  that  they'll  wake  up  the 
Commissioner  for  me  before  I  get  through," 
snapped  the  former  newspaper  man.  "Come  on; 
hustle  with  your  key." 

"Yay-ah?    And  just  why?" 

"Why?  Because  I've  got  the  dope  on  who 
planted  those  bombs  on  Lexington  Avenue  and 
Irving  Place  yesterday  afternoon." 

"Even  so,  I  guess  it  can  wait  till  mornin'," 
said  the  warder. 

Fallon  yawned.  "Have  it  your  way,  my  man. 
It's  a  pretty  fair  job,  this.  Lots  of  nice  graft 
from  prisoners  for  slipping  them  something  on 
the  side.  Much  nicer  than  being  a  bull  in  the 
Bronx.  And  that's  where  you'll  be,  my  friend, 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  233 

if  I  don't  get  the  ear  of  the  officer  at  the  desk  in 
about  three  minutes." 

The  warder  eyed  his  prisoner  closely.  Appar- 
ently Fallen  was  a  disreputable  drunk,  who  had 
been  slugged  by  highwaymen.  But  he  talked 
authoritatively,  and — there'd  been  gossip  in 
every  precinct  in  the  city  this  past  evening,  gos- 
sip that  said  that  Germans  were  responsible  for 
the  bomb  outrages  of  yesterday.  If  this  man 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  .  .  .  Well, 
he  could  take  a  chance  with  the  Lieutenant  at 
the  desk. 

The  Lieutenant  listened  to  the  warder.  The 
police,  the  Federal  Government,  everybody  who 
by  any  possibility  could  have  been  expected  to 
put  a  stop  to  the  bomb  outrages,  the  arson,  the 
sabotage  of  the  past  year  or  two,  had  been  con- 
demned by  the  press  and  public  until  the  situa- 
tion had  become  unendurable.  This  drunken 
man  might  be  a  raving  maniac,  but,  if  he  did 
know  something.  .  .  . 

But  Fallen  refused  to  talk  to  any  one  at  the 
police  station.  Headquarters  and  the  Commis- 
sioner were  his  ambition.  And  he  so  impressed 
the  Lieutenant  that  a  special  trip  to  Headquar- 
ters was  made. 

At  this  hour  of  the  night  not  even  a  Deputy 
Commissioner  was  to  be  found,  but  Fallen  fi- 


234 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

nally  consented  to  talk  to  a  captain  of  detectives. 
The  captain  heard  him  through.  It  was  an  in- 
credible story,  this  yarn  connecting  Lydia  Gryce, 
daughter  of  the  eminent  publisher,  and  herself 
well  known  in  society,  with  bomb-placing.  But 
— these  were  strange  times.  And  while  there 
was  nothing  to  prove  that  the  incident  of  yes- 
terday was  Teutonic  in  origin,  still,  bombs  were 
Teutonic  weapons,  and  Stephen  Gryce  was  a 
pacifist,  and  pacifists  weren't  much  better  than 
traitors.  He  questioned  Fallen  closely. 

In  everything  that  Fallon  said  the  man's 
words  rang  true.  Incredible,  yes,  but — Miss 
Gryce  might  well  afford  to  explain  away  such 
damaging  testimony.  And  then,  as  he  reached 
for  the  telephone,  a  thought  came  to  him. 

"How'd  you  happen  to  know  that  the  girl  was 
Stephen  Gryce's  daughter?"  asked  the  captain. 

"How'd  I  know  it?  Didn't  I  see  her  around 
her  father's  office  a  hundred  times  when  I  was 
on  the  Record?"  demanded  Fallon. 

Captain  Farley  whistled  softly.  "So  that's 
it,  eh?  Used  to  be  on  the  Record,  did  you?" 
His  hand  moved  away  from  the  telephone. 

"Sure  I  did." 

"I  see,"  said  the  captain.  "Resigned,  I  sup- 
pose." 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  235 

"I  was  fired,  if  it  makes  any  difference  in  your 
life,"  said  Fallen. 

"Uh-huh,"  grunted  the  captain.  "Not  much; 
but  it  seems  to  have  made  a  difference  in  yours, 
Mr.  Fallon.  And  you  say  that  the  girl  con- 
fessed to  you  that  she'd  planted  the  bomb? 
How'd  that  happen?" 

"I  told  you — I  went  to  see  her,"  snapped  Fal- 
lon. 

"Oh,  yes."  The  detective  captain  was  absent- 
minded.  "And  she  wouldn't  give  you  anything, 
eh?" 

Liquor,  excitement,  hate,  the  blow  on  the  head 
— all  things  conspired  to  make  Fallon  dull-wit- 
ted now.  Revenge  blurs  the  intelligence  at  best, 
and  Fallon's  intellect  had  other  things  to  blur  it. 
He  was  poorer  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life ; 
he  was  incapable  of  climbing  the  up-grade  to  de- 
cency; he  was  incapable  ever  of  starting  again 
to  crawl  along  the  lower  level  that  had  been  his 
thoroughfare  these  past  few  years.  Nothing 
mattered  any  more,  except  "getting"  Lydia 
Gryce,  Deems,  and  the  publisher,  if  he  could. 
And  so  he  was  incautious. 

"I  should  say  she  would  give  me  something! 
She  gave  me  a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars, 
and " 


236  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"You  didn't  tell  me  that,"  interrupted  Cap- 
tain Farley.  "Show  me  the  check." 

He  listened  patiently  enough  while  Fallen  en- 
tered upon  the  explanation  of  the  absence  of  the 
check.  But  Fallen  had  made  his  case  too  strong. 
Cases  that  are  too  strong  have  latent  weaknesses, 
Captain  Farley  had  learned  many  years  ago.  If 
Fallon  had  not  said  that  Lydia  Gryce  had  bribed 
him,  Farley  might  have  given  his  story  some 
credence.  As  it  was — Lydia  Gryce  was  not  a 
fool,  and  nobody  but  a  fool  would  have  played 
into  the  hands  of  a  drunken  chauffeur.  A  plain 
case  of  crazy  blackmail,  inspired  by  Fallon's  dis- 
charge from  the  Record. 

The  captain  reached  for  the  telephone.  "Con- 
nect me  with  the  home  of  Stephen  Gryce,"  he 
said  to  Headquarters  operator. 

"What  you  doin'  that  for?"  asked  Fallon. 

"Just  to  find  out  how  much  of  a  liar  you  are," 
grunted  the  detective.  "And  you  keep  quiet. 
Hear'me?"  he  roared. 

Fallon  subsided.     Shortly  the  captain  said: 

"Home  of  Stephen  Gryce?  In  bed?  Well,  I 
can't  help  it,  I  must  talk  to  him.  Captain  Far- 
ley of  Police  Headquarters  speaking.  Impor- 
tant matter.  .  .  .  This  you,  Mr.  Gryce?  Sorry 
to  disturb  you,  sir,  but — a  man  named  Fallon, 
formerly  employed  by  you,  is  down  at  Headquar- 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  237 

ters  with  a  crazy  yarn  about  your  daughter. 
Says  she  was  connected  with  some  bomb  outrages 
on  Irving  Place  and  Lexington  Avenue  to-day. 
Says  she  gave  him  ten  thousand  to  keep  his  mouth 
shut  and  that  a  reporter  from  your  paper  got  the 
check  away  from  him.  Talks  like  a  hop-head, 
but — your  daughter  there?  May  I  speak  with 
her  a  moment?  Thank  you  .  .  .  Miss  Gryce? 
Captain  Farley  talking.  Merely  wanted  abso- 
lute corroboration  of  the  fact  that  a  man  down  in 
my  office  was  lying.  He  said  that  you  weren't 
at  home  but  were  at  a  house  on  Forty-seventh 
Street.  Been  home  all  evening,  eh?  Well, 
sorry  to  disturb  you,  Miss  Gryce.  Put  your 
father  on  again,  please.  .  .  .  Mr.  Gryce?  Sorry 
to  annoy  you.  Your  daughter  has  been  home 
all  evening,  eh?  And  was  with  you  all  after- 
noon, eh?  Well,  I  guess  your  word  and  hers 
are  good  against  a  dirty  drunken  hound  like 
this  rat  I  got  here.  Only  called  you  up  because 
I  was  afraid  he'd  get  to  some  newspaper  and 
make  talk.  Thought  I'd  nail  him  right  off.  Will 
you  come  down  in  the  morniii'  and  make  a  charge 
against  him?  .  .  .  Let  him  go?  I  wouldn't  do 
that  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Gryce.  These  chaps 
ought  to  get  the  limit  the  law  allows.  Teach 
'em  better;  set  a  good  example.  Too  much 
blackmail  these  days.  .  .  .  Let  him  go?  ... 


238  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Well,  Mr.  Gryce,  you're  the  boss.  Of  course, 
he  ain't  guilty  of  nothing  more  than  slander,  I 
suppose.  .  .  .  Randolph  Fallen,  yes.  That's 
his  name.  All  right,  sir." 

He  hung  up  and  turned  to  Fallen.  "Listen, 
feller,"  he  said,  coldly.  "Gryce  is  a  nice,  milk- 
and-watery  sort  of  guy.  But  I'm  hard,  man, 
awful  hard.  I'd  just  laugh  myself  sick  if  you 
was  brought  in  here  some  day,  charged  with 
somethin',  even  if  it  was  only  drunkenness.  I'd 
put  it  over  on  you  so  hard  that  the  guy  that  in- 
vented frame-ups  would  turn  over  in  his  grave 
from  jealousy.  'Cause  why?  Because  I  hate 
rats,  that's  why. 

"But  Gryce  evidently  doesn't.  Forgive  and 
let  live  seems  to  be  his  motto.  Well,  enough. 
He's  the  boss.  His  daughter's  the  one  you  been 
yawpin'  about,  not  mine.  If  it  was  mine — but 
it  ain't.  Now,  feller — git." 

Fallon  stared,  his  chin  on  his  chest;  slumped 
in  the  chair  and  looked  exactly  what  he  was,  a 
crook  and  a  blackmailer,  a  weakling  and  a  sot. 
And  for  the  first  time  in  many  years  he  had  been 
telling  the  literal  truth.  There  was  no  justice 
in  this  world.  A  man  like  Gryce  could  get  away 
with  murder.  But  he,  Randolph  Fallon,  could 
not  get  away  even  with  the  truth.  Yesterday 
he  had  been  little  to  boast  of,  but — he  had  been 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  239 

earning  a  living,  such  as  it  was.  To-day,  this 
morning,  he  was  flat  broke,  his  means  of  liveli- 
hood gone,  and — there  was  no  recourse.  Stephen 
Gryce  was  a  power  in  the  city  and  country.  He 
made  mayors  and  unmade  governors.  A  captain 
of  detectives  would  take  the  word  of  Stephen 
Gryce  against  that  of  Randolph  Fallen.  If  only 
he  hadn't  mentioned  the  ten  thousand  dollars 
blackmail  check  given  him  by  Miss  Gryce.  Then 
Farley  might  have  believed  him  and  he  could 
have  had,  at  least,  the  beginnings  of  revenge. 
As  it  was.  .  .  .  He  was  lucky  to  leave  Head- 
quarters at  all,  and  he  knew  it,  and  showed  it  in 
the  manner  in  which,  crabwise,  he  sidled  from  the 
room. 

He  had  not  even  a  penny  in  his  pocket;  the 
thugs  who  had  assaulted  him  had  "cleaned"  him 
completely.  He  must  walk.  But  where  to? 
He  stood  in  front  of  Headquarters  a  full  three 
minutes,  revolving  plans.  And  then  an  idea 
came  to  him.  Gryce  had  lied  to  Captain  Far- 
ley; he  knew  that.  Of  course,  Lydia  Gryce 
might  have  gone  home  in  the  hours  that  had 
elapsed  since  he  saw  her  descend  from  the  road- 
ster and  enter  the  house  on  Forty-seventh 
street.  That  was,  if  it  really  had  been  Lydia 
who  talked  with  Farley.  But  Gryce  had  lied 
when  he  told  the  detective  captain  that  she  had 


240  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

been  with  him  all  afternoon.  It  might  be  that 
Gryce  still  lied.  And  if  Lydia  Gryce  was  not 
at  home — well,  earlier  by  a  few  hours  he  had  tried 
to  think  of  some  shrewd  plan  and  failed.  But 
bluntness  might  win.  Lydia  Gryce  had  yielded 
to  threat  before;  she  might  do  so  again. 

It  was  a  long  walk  uptown;  he  was  tired  from 
excitement,  from  fear,  and  the  wearing  emotion 
of  hate.  But  greed  gave  him  strength.  Stead- 
ily he  progressed  up-town,  and,  in  his  intentness 
upon  his  errand,  he  was  unaware  that  he  had 
been  followed  from  the  very  moment  that  he  left 
Headquarters.  The  limousine  that  had  been 
slowly  passing  by  as  he  stood  upon  the  steps  had 
not  attracted  his  attention,  and  if  it  had  the  at- 
tention would  have  been  casual.  And  so  he  did 
not  notice  that  two  men  emerged  from  it  half  a 
block  away;  he  did  not  know  that  they  followed 
him  all  the  tiresome  miles  uptown. 

He  had  not  remembered  the  number  of  the 
Forty-seventh  Street  house,  but  he  remembered 
its  appearance.  And  he  no  longer  needed  drugs 
wherewith  to  clear  his  brain.  He  could  think 
now;  his  narrow  escape  from  a  cell  had  fright- 
ened him  into  clarity  of  thought. 

There  came,  at  first,  no  response  to  his  rings, 
but  insistently  he  pressed  the  button.  And  fi- 
nally the  door  swung  cautiously  open.  Fallen 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  241 

pressed  his  foot  against  it,  but  the  chain  that 
protected  it  would  not  give.  Through  the  crack 
Fallen  spoke. 

"I  want  to  see  Miss  Gryce,  Miss  Lydia 
Gryce,"  he  said. 

"Miss  Gryce?"  It  was  a  very  sleepy  old  col- 
oured servant  who  answered.  "Who  you-all 
think  you  are,  comin'  round  this  time  o'  th'  mawn- 
in'  asking  for  Miss  Gryce?  No  sech  person 
here." 

"No?  If  she  doesn't  answer  to  me,  she'll  an- 
swer to  a  policeman,"  threatened  Fallon.  "You 
tell  her  that  Randolph  Fallon,  the  man  she  saw 
yesterday  afternoon,  wants  to  see  her  quick. 
Don't  stall  with  me;  I  know  she's  here." 

The  coloured  woman  hesitated.  "You  wait 
here,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  And  she 
slammed  the  door,  bruising  Fallen's  foot  in  the 
action. 

Fallon  bit  his  lip.  It  was  not,  physically,  his 
lucky  night,  but  still — money  would  assuage 
bruises.  And  he  had  forgotten  the  slight  injury 
a  moment  later  when  the  servant  returned  and 
grudgingly  bade  him  enter. 

Lydia  Gryce  had  been  sleeping  soundly  when 
the  servant  awakened  her.  It  was  the  second 
time  within  six  hours  that  she  had  been  awakened 
from  slumber,  but  she  looked  as  charming  as 


242  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

i 
though  she  had  had  the  full  quota  of  sleep  that 

doctors  prescribe  for  all  healthy  adults  who  would 
remain  healthy.  But  her  charm,  to  Fallon  at 
any  rate,  was  modified  by  the  contempt  in  her 
glance. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"It  isn't  well;  as  well  as  you'd  like  it,  Miss 
Gryce,"  said  the  taxi-man.  "I'm  sorry  to  dis- 
turb you,  but — business  is  business,  ain't  it?" 

"What  business  have  we  with  each  other?  I 
thought  that  was  all  settled,"  she  replied. 

"So  did  I,  but — I  lost  that  check  you  gave  me, 
Miss  Gryce,  and  I  want  another." 

She  eyed  him ;  he  was  lying,  but — that  did  not 
matter. 

"How  did  you  know  where  to  find  me?"  she 
asked. 

He  blinked  owlishly.  "That's  telling.  What 
do  you  care?  I'm  wise,  I  am.  Do  I  get  that 
check?" 

She  shrugged.  "I  shall  have  the  other  one 
stopped,  you  understand?" 

"Sure  thing.     Ain't  I  told  you  that  I  lost  it?" 

"Yes,  you  told  me,"  she  said,  listlessly.  Again 
she  stared  at  him.  In  the  house  with  her  was 
only  the  negro  maid,  an  old,  feeble  woman.  As 
for  herself — she  was  strong,  but — Fallon,  de- 
spite the  dissipation  of  years,  still  retained  his 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  24$ 

strong  frame.  Lydia  could  not  know  that  all 
his  muscle  had  degenerated  into  flabby  fat.  And 
yet,  it  was  vital  that  the  man  be  kept  here.  In 
another  day  her  plans  would  mature,  must  ma- 
ture, unless  they  were  doomed  to  failure.  And 
failure  she  could  not  believe  was  to  be  her  por- 
tion. 

Yesterday  evening,  it  had  not  mattered  so 
much.  To  get  rid  of  the  man  and  to  insure  his 
silence — that  had  been  enough.  But  this  morn- 
ing— dawn  was  close  at  hand — Fallon  must  not 
be  permitted  to  leave  here.  He  had,  in  some 
unexpected  fashion,  found  her  secret  hiding 
place,  the  hiding  place  that  she  thought  to  be  se- 
cure. If  he  knew  of  it — every  action  of  hers 
would  be  investigated  by  those  who  were  ene- 
mies, not  alone  of  her,  but  of  her  country.  If 
Fallon  should  present  this  check  at  the  bank, 
emissaries  of  de  Grecque  would  know  of  it,  would 
follow  him — Fallon  must  not  leave  here. 

And  yet,  how  was  she  to  prevent  him?  Help- 
lessly she  stared  at  him.  After  all  that  she  had 
endured,  to  have  her  work  jeopardised  by  a  man 
like  this!  She  regretted  the  fact  that  she  was 
unarmed.  Had  she  only  a  revolver !  He  must  be 
a  coward.  She  looked  about  the  room  helplessly. 

"Come  on,  Miss  Gryce,  I  want  that  check,'" 
insisted  Fallon. 


244  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

And  then  the  maid  was  in  the  room;  in  the 
room  with  a  message  that  brought  the  colour  back 
to  Lydia's  cheeks. 

"Another  gentleman  to  see  you,  Miss  Lydia," 
said  the  servant.  "Says  his  name  is  Rogan,  Miss 
Lydia." 

Rogan!  So  that  strange  man  had  eluded  de 
Grecque,  was  here  to  rescue  her  again! 

"Show  him  in,"  she  said,  exultantly. 

Fallen  whitened.  "Lookahere,  Miss  Gryce," 
he  said,  "you  know  what  I  know  about  you.  You 
try  any  funny  business " 

Her  laugh  silenced  him. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Fallen,"  she  said,  "I  have 
a  curiosity  as  to  what  a  man  of  your  kind  will 
do  when  facing  a  real  man?  You  come  here  to 
blackmail  me.  You  are  very  brave  dealing  with 
a  woman,  Mr.  Fallon.  But  you  were  careless, 
very  careless,  when  you  lost  that  check  that  I 
gave  you  yesterday.  Because  you  will  not  get 
another  check  from  me,  Mr.  Fallon." 

He  stared  at  her.  Once  again  malign  fate 
had  balked  him  of  his  opportunity  for  what  he 
termed  rehabilitation. 

"You  talk  big,  Miss  Gryce,"  he  said,  "but 
when  the  police " 

"After  to-morrow,"  she  laughed,  "you  may  go 


DE  GRECQUE  ENTERS  245 

to  the  police,  Mr.  Fallon.  I  shall  not  mind. 
But  to-night— 

The  words  died  away  on  her  lips.  For  it  was 
not  Rogan,  the  man  who  at  risk  of  a  wound  to 
himself  had  effected  her  rescue  last  night,  who 
entered  the  room.  It  was  de  Grecque. 

Smiling  evilly  he  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Continue,  Miss  Gryce,  continue,  I  beg  of 
you,"  he  said.  He  rubbed  his  hands  together. 
"This  gentleman  with  you — he  practices  black- 
mail, eh?  And  you — you  occasionally  submit  to 
it,  eh?  But  not  too  often.  But  continue.  'To- 
night,' you  were  saying.  Go  on,  please." 

Dumbly  she  stared  at  him.  As  for  Fallon, 
subtly  he  sensed  the  menace  of  the  stranger's 
presence.  Maybe  his  game  was  not  up  after  all. 

"I  can  tell  you  a  lot  about  this  lady,"  he  said, 
"if  you'll  make  it  worth  my  while." 

De  Grecque  merely  looked  at  him.  Before 
that  look  Fallon  went  dumb.  He  moved  not  a 
muscle  as  de  Grecque  advanced  toward  the  girl. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

THE   CROOKED   TRAIL   TURNS   STRAIGHT 

A  FEW  feet  away  from  the  girl  de  Grecque 
stopped.  His  rolling  eyes  seemed  to  do  more 
than  travel  over  the  surface  of  her  body;  they 
seemed  to  penetrate.  She  was  suddenly  con- 
scious of  her  negligee.  For  there  was  something 
more  in  de  Grecque's  eyes  now  than  the  menace 
that  had  been  in  them  at  the  moment  of  his  en- 
trance. Something  indescribably  base,  some- 
thing that  made  her  realise,  as  she  had  not  real- 
ised when  Fallon  alone  was  threatening  her,  that 
she  was  of  the  feminine  sex.  Almost  uncon- 
sciously she  drew  closer  about  her  throat  the  folds 
of  the  silken  scarf  that  she  had  added  to  her 
hasty  toilet. 

"So,"  said  de  Grecque.  "You  are  found  at 
last,  ma'm'selle?  There  will  be  a  reckoning,  per- 
haps, of  the  debt  due  me,  or  the  payment  due 
you." 

She  had  nothing  to  say.  Fight  as  she  would 
against  any  sign  of  weakness,  she  shivered. 
More  than  the  grey  dawn,  beginning  to  peep 

246 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT     247 

down  upon  the  canons  of  New  York,  chilled  the 
room. 

Again  the  rolling  eyes  of  de  Grecque  went  up 
and  down  her  body.  Had  he  licked  his  lips  he 
would  have  added  nothing  to  the  expression  upon 
his  face. 

"You  have  nothing  to  say,  eh?  Well,  that  is 
as  well.  For  it  is  a  woman's  place  to  listen  when 
a  man  speaks."  He  utterly  ignored  the  pres- 
ence of  Fallon.  For  all  that  de  Grecque  knew, 
Fallon  was  armed;  yet  so  contemptuous  was  he 
of  the  other  man  that  he  paid  him  not  the  slight- 
est heed.  He  was,  Lydia  felt,  like  the  serpent 
who,  having  mesmerised  one  bird,  continues  with 
his  design  upon  another,  confident  that  the  first 
will  neither  attack  nor  escape. 

And,  indeed,  Fallon  seemed  hypnotised. 
After  his  first  speech,  quelled  by  de  Grecque's 
glance,  the  taxi-man  stood  like  an  image,  save 
for  his  eyes  that  wandered  from  her  face  to  the 
face  of  de  Grecque  and  helplessly  back  again. 

De  Grecque  leaned  against  a  table.  For  a 
moment  his  eyes  left  Lydia's  face  while  they  wan- 
dered about  the  room.  It  was  a  pretty  apart- 
ment ;  taste  had  made  the-small  room  cozy,  charm- 
ing. 

"A  nest,"  said  de  Grecque,  "wherein  two  per- 
sons might  find  happiness,  eh,  Miss  Gryce?" 


248 THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

His  meaning  was  unmistakable.  Lydia  col- 
oured. 

"You  have  business  with  me?'*  she  said. 
"Please  get  it  over  with." 

De  Grecque  laughed.  "You  have  courage, 
Miss  Gryce.  Get  over  with  our  business?"  He 
shook  his  head.  "There  is  but  one  end  to  that, 
Miss  Gryce.  Why  not — postpone  that  end?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  told  him. 

"No?  And  yet  you  have  a  quick  wit,  Miss 
Gryce.  You  do  understand  me.  You  know 
that  your  country  and  mine  are  at  war." 

"Since  when  have  France  and  America 
fought?"  she  asked  innocently. 

He  waved  the  question  aside.  "You  and  I 
are  not  children,  Miss  Gryce.  Let  us  not  play 
at  a  game.  My  country  is  Germany.  You 
know  that.  And  our  countries  are  at  war.  At 
present,  Germany,  as  represented  by  me,  has  an 
advantage  over  you,  who  represent  America. 
That  advantage  is  but  typical  of  our  countries: 
Germany,  in  the  end,  will  crush  America." 

For  answer  she  smiled  mockingly. 

"You  think  not,  eh?"  he  cried.  "Listen,  Miss 
Gryce.  The  Allies  have  no  truth  in  them. 
They  decry  the  great  things  that  Germany  has 
done.  And  yet,  in  their  hearts,  they  know  that 
they  are  beaten.  Your  Government  knows  it, 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT  24-9 

too.  But  politics  rule,  not  common  sense.  But 
you — you  have  common  sense.  You  will  be 
guided  by  it.  You  will  join  me." 

"You  say  so,"  she  rejoined. 

He  lifted  his  shoulders.  "You  are  not  the 
type,  Miss  Gryce,  to  be  upon  a  losing  side." 

"You  mean  that  I  have  not  the  resolution  to 
suffer?" 

He  smiled  deprecatingly.  "I  would  not  pay 
you  so  poor  a  compliment,  Miss  Gryce.  But — 
you  are  ambitious — greatly  so.  You  have  risked 
everything  to  serve  your  country.  A  woman 
takes  risks,  not  as  a  man  does — because  it  is  part 
of  the  game,  but  because  she  is  ambitious." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  that  you 
Germans  misunderstand  us,  men  and  women 
both,"  she  told  him. 

"Perhaps.  Yet  we  have  spent  years  study- 
ing you,  and  we  Germans  are  good  students." 

"I  believe  you  studied  Belgium,  too,"  she  re- 
torted. "And  England.  Those  powers  would 
not  fight." 

His  eyes  were  malevolent.  "There  is  no  Bel- 
gium now,"  he  answered.  "There  will  be  no 
England." 

"And  yet,  greatly  to  Germany's  discomfort, 
there  is  an  England  just  now." 

"It  will  be  crushed,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Gryce. 


250  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

But  we  wander  too  far.  Argument  is  not 
needed  now.  I  have  the  winning  hand,  Miss 
Gryce.  You  will  now  do  exactly  what  I  tell 
you.  And  yet,  why  should  threat  pass  from  me 
to  you?  I  am  a  man,  Miss  Gryce.  You  are  a 
woman.  Between  men  and  women  threats  are 
unnecessary.  You  are  ambitious.  You  would 
achieve  things.  But  what  is  achievement  if 
there  is  no  reward?  And  America  can  pay  no 
reward ;  America  is  doomed.  She  will  be  a  Ger- 
man province  when  the  treaty  of  peace  is  signed. 
And  to  those  who  shall  have  earned  Germany's 
good-will,  no  reward  shall  be  too  great.  Miss 
Gryce,  why  not  gratify  ambition?  Why  waste 
it  in  a  losing  cause?" 

She  stared  at  him;  something  of  her  father's 
expression  when  politicians,  mean  politicians, 
made  bids  for  his  support  of  venal  measures, 
crept  into  her  eyes.  It  was  a  curiously  detached 
look,  thoroughly  impersonal;  it  was  as  though 
the  living,  breathing  de  Grecque  before  her  were 
the  creation,  the  grotesque  creation,  of  some  vul- 
garly comic  artist.  There  was  even  mirth  in  her 
contempt. 

"Are  you  seriously  proposing,  Herr  de 
Grecque,  that  I  turn  traitor?" 

He  avoided  her  glance.  "Why  use  unpleas- 
ant words?  Miss  Gryce,  a  German  viceroy  will 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT     251 

sit  in  the  White  House.  I  could  name  him  if  I 
chose.  To  be  his  wife " 

He  paused,  smiling.  Slowly  his  smile  van- 
ished. The  girl  made  no  direct  reply,  but  de 
Grecque  read  his  answer.  His  whole  manner 
changed.  Suavity  left  it ;  he  was  no  longer  per- 
suasive, ingratiating. 

"I  have  made  an  offer,  Miss  Gryce.  You 
have  rejected  it.  There  will  be  no  more  offers. 
Germans  never  sue  for  anything;  they  take  that 
which  they  want.  I  make  demands  now.  And 
yet,  I  would  not  be  too  harsh  with  you.  Your 
life  is  of  some  value,  yes?  Suppose  I  give  you 
it.  Germany  owns  it ;  it  is  forfeit  a  dozen  times. 
And  yet,  the  life  of  one  woman  is  of  no  great 
importance.  You  have  been  working  against 
me,  Miss  Gryce.  I  would  know  for  whom." 

"I  should  think  that  the  keen  German  mind 
could  guess,"  she  mocked. 

He  bowed.  "The  keen  German  mind  does 
not  guess,  Miss  Gryce.  For  your  country.  But 
the  person — the  person  who  suspected  me,  who 
told  you  to  block  me — I  would  have  his  name." 

"But  you  do  not  really  expect  to  get  it  from 
me,"  she  said. 

Again  he  bowed,  and  there  was  less  of  mock- 
ery in  it. 

"I  honour  your  great  courage,  Miss  Gryce. 


£52  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

And  yet — I  do  expect  that  information  from 
you.  Listen,  you  are  young,  and  it  is  the  young, 
oddly  enough,  who  place  least  value  upon  life. 
The  old,  who  should  be  wearied  of  this  world, 
wish  to  remain  in  it.  You  might  laugh  at 
threats  against  yourself — but  your  father?" 

"You  can  not  harm  him,"  declared  Lydia. 

"No?"  De  Grecque  laughed.  "You  have  a 
telephone  here?  I  may  use  it?  I  thank  you." 

He  picked  up  the  instrument  on  the  desk  and 
asked  for  a  number.  "Connect  me  with  Gryce's 
number,"  he  said  a  moment  later. 

Lydia's  eyebrows  raised.  De  Grecque  had 
not  asked  for  the  number  of  the  Gryce  mansion; 
he  had  called  up  another  number  and  asked  who- 
ever answered  to  connect  him  with  her  father. 
She  began  to  understand,  now,  why  she  had  been 
so  suddenly  cut  off  as  she  was  telling  her  father, 
from  the  up-town  lunchroom,  of  her  escape.  She 
had  thought  that  Central  had  made  a  mistake,  at 
the  time;  but  she  realised  now  that  de  Grecque 
had  tampered  with  the  line. 

"Gryce?  This  is  de  Grecque  talking.  A 
while  ago  you  were  quite  defiant;  perhaps  you 
are  less  so  now.  You  have  not  dared  to  leave 
your  house,  eh?  It  is  as  well  that  you  do  not, 
Gryce.  And  you  defied  me  to  produce  your 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT     253 

daughter.  Gryce,  I  have  found  her.  She  will 
talk  with  you." 

He  put  his  hand  over  the  mouthpiece  and 
turned  to  Lydia. 

"You  will  be  quite  careful  what  you  say,  my 
dear.  And,  if  you  love  your  father,  and  would 
ever  see  him  again,  you  will  advise  him  to  aban- 
don whatever  plans  he  may  have  made  against 
me." 

Lydia  walked  to  the  telephone.  A  moment 
she  stood  in  thought,  hardly  hearing  her  father's 
anxious  queries.  Then,  swiftly,  she  spoke: 

"In  the  desk  in  my  room,  father ;  in  the  lower 
right-hand  drawer!  The  long,  flat  envel- 
ope- 

De  Grecque's  hand  upon  her  shoulder  tore 
her  away  from  the  instrument.  As  she  reeled 
against  the  wall  something  glowed  in  the  eyes  of 
Fallen,  something  that  had  not  been  there  for 
many  years. 

De  Grecque  snatched  up  the  receiver.  "It 
doesn't  matter,  Gryce,"  he  cried,  "what  your 
daughter  just  said.  You  will  have  no  chance  to 
do  anything  with  it,  whatever  it  may  be.  But 
you  have  a  chance  to  save  her — and  yourself. 
Gryce,  you  know  that  your  house  is  surrounded; 
that  your  telephone  is  cut  off;  that  you  can  not 
summon  help.  The  end  is  near,  Gryce.  Will 


254  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

you  be  a  fool,  or  will  you  play  the  game  as  I 
would  have  you  play  it?" 

At  the  other  end  of  the  wire  Gryce  listened. 
His  clothing  was  suddenly  damp,  damp  with  the 
perspiration  that  nervous  horror  had  brought. 
But  his  voice  was  calm. 

"Put  my  daughter  on  the  'phone,  de  Grecque," 
he  said.  "Have  her  tell  me  that  she  wishes  me 
to  sacrifice  everything  decent,  and  I'll  do  it!  .  .  . 
You  can't  get  her  to  do  that,  eh?  Then,  de 
Grecque,  bring  on  your  'end'  and  watch  me  play 
hob  with  it." 

De  Grecque  hung  up;  he  looked  at  Lydia. 
"Your  father  is  a  fool,"  he  said  slowly.  "Also, 
he  is  a  poor  father  to  put  anything  before  your 
safety." 

"Did  he  do  that?"  asked  Lydia. 

De  Grecque  misread  her  excitement.  "He 
has  no  feeling  for  you,"  he  declared. 

Lydia  laughed.  "Then  I'm  proud  of  him,  and 
I  forgive  him  for  moaning  so  often  that  I  was 
not  a  boy.  Why,  you  German  thing,  do  you 
think  that  a  real  American  will  put  even  his 
women  above  his  country?" 

De  Grecque  sneered.  "You  might  almost 
play  heroine  in  one  of  your  Broadway  melo- 
dramas, Miss  Gryce.  I  wonder  if,  when  I  take 
you,  you  will  be  so  brave?  I  have  offered  you, 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT     255 

Miss  Gryce,  place  and  power.  You  will  not 
have  it.  Suppose,  Miss  Gryce,  I  offer  you  noth- 
ing but — myself?" 

Once  again  the  look  that  frightened  her  ap- 
peared in  his  eyes.  He  came  nearer  to  her.  And 
then  Fallen's  voice  stopped  him.  Petulant,  al- 
most whining,  was  the  voice  of  Fallon. 

"Say,  lookahere,  people.  While  you're  play- 
ing this  little  game,  don't  forget  about  me." 

De  Grecque  stopped  his  advance.  Inconsid- 
erable thing  that  Fallon  was,  Fallon,  neverthe- 
less, was  the  man  who  had  led  him  to  Lydia 
Gryce.  He  eyed  the  drunkard  appraisingly. 

"You  were  at  Police  Headquarters,  making 
some  sort  of  charge  against  Miss  Gryce?"  he 
asked. 

"Yay-ah,"  said  Fallon.  "She  tried  to  kill  a 
guy  named  Deems.  Put  a  bomb  in  his 


room 

"Named  Deems?"  De  Grecque  was  frankly 
surprised. 

"Yes.     Called  himself  Curtiss,  but " 

"Called  himself  Curtiss!" 

"That's  it.  And  a  man  named  Graffe — runs 
a  book  store  on  Lexington  Avenue — she  tried  to 
bump  him  off,  and— 

De  Grecque  turned  to  Lydia.  He  stared  at 
her.  He  looked  again  at  Fallon.  "You  are 


256  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

sure" — he  wet  his  lips — "that  this  man  Curtiss  is 
really  named  Deems?  Not  Deems  of  the  Rec- 
ord?" 

"That's  the  guy,"  said  Fallen.  "I  used  to 
work  on  the  Record;  that's  how  I  know  him." 

De  Grecque  reached  out  his  hand;  he  seized 
Lydia  by  the  arm. 

"This  Deems — does  this  man  tell  the  truth? 
Was  it  a  man  named  Deems  that  you  tried  to 
kill?" 

She  tried  vainly  to  wrench  herself  free.  Once 
again  something  glowed  in  the  eyes  of  Fallen. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said.  "I  tried  to 
kill  no  one." 

De  Grecque  released  her.  He  studied  her  a 
moment.  "Somewhere,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen 
— you  know  Rogan?  But,  of  course  you  do. 
You  admitted  me  because  I  sent  in  his  name. 
.  .  .  Deems."  His  voice  died  away,  yet  his  lips 
moved.  Then  his  voice  was  audible  again. 

"I  begin  to  see  much,"  he  said.  "I  begin  to 
understand.  .  .  .  You  will  come  with  me,  Miss 
Gryce.  And  you  will  come  silently.  If  you 
raise  your  voice " 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  shall  not  leave  here," 
she  declared. 

He  smiled.  Again  his  hand  reached  forth  and 
seized  her.  He  shook  her.  And  for  the  third 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT     257 

time  the  queer  light  glowed  in  the  eyes  of  Fal- 
lon. 

"Quit  it,"  he  said. 

De  Grecque  dropped  the  girl's  arm;  he 
turned  upon  Fallon. 

"Well,  my  blackmailer  gutter-rat?" 

"Let  her  alone,"  snarled  Fallon.  He  looked, 
for  all  the  world,  like  the  thing  de  Grecque 
called  him,  the  thing  that  Captain  Farley  had 
called  him  not  an  hour  ago.  And  yet,  sodden, 
disreputable,  broken  though  he  looked,  he  met 
de  Grecque's  blazing  eyes  squarely. 

"Let  her  alone,"  he  said  again.  "Getting  the 
coin — that's  O.  K.  But  this  handling  her — she's 
a  lady,  you  damned  German." 

"Damned  Ger "  De  Grecque  echoed  Fal- 

lon's  epithet.  Then  he  laughed. 

"Miss  Gryce,"  he  said,  "I  congratulate  you. 
You  are  a  leader  of  men.  You  inspire  them. 
Even  this  gutter-rat  rises  to  your  heights.  Taw- 
dry heights;  heights  of  melodrama,  but — 
heights."  Then  the  humour  left  his  voice.  "You 
will  be  very  careful,  my  friend  Fallon,  that  you 
do  not  anger  me.  You  will  be  careful  of  the 
language  you  address  to  me.  You  may  be  use- 
ful to  me,  and  so — it  is  forgotten,  but "  He 

beckoned  to  Lydia.  "You  will  come  with  me," 
he  stated. 


258  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"No,  she  won't,"  said  Fallon.  Through 
bleared  eyes  he  looked  at  de  Grecque.  Pain- 
fully he  spoke.  "I'm  what  you  call  me,  all 
right,"  he  said  slowly.  "I'm  a  rat.  But  I'm 
an  American.  Miss  Gryce,  what's  this  man's 
game,  anyway?  Treason,  or  what?" 

"Treason,"  she  answered.  Into  her  eyes 
sprang  hope.  Fallon  was  strong-looking  of 
frame.  If  he  had  the  courage.  .  .  .  And  Fal- 
lon had  it.  Rat-souled  he  was;  blackguard, 
scoundrel,  blackmailer,  drunkard.  But  once  he 
had  been  decent;  decent  people  had  been  his  as- 
sociates; good  blood  ran  in  his  veins.  The  Fal- 
lons  had  furnished  no  informers  in  the  old  gen- 
erations in  Ireland,  nor  any  traitors  to  Amer- 
ica among  the  new  generations. 

"I  don't  stand  for  that,"  said  Fallon.  He 
drew  himself  up  and  glared  at  de  Grecque.  It 
was  the  glare,  undoubtedly,  of  a  drunkard,  the 
glare  of  the  weak-souled.  It  was  the  sort  of 
look  that  would  be  bound  to  draw  laughter  from 
the  lips  of  the  strong.  And  de  Grecque  was 
strong. 

"You  don't?"  de  Grecque  laughed.  "Don't 
interfere  here,  Fallon.  There  is  more  money  for 
you " 

"Money?  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  money. 
I'm  a  crook,  but  I'm  a  clean  crook,  not  a  Ger- 


THE  CROOKED  TRAIL  TURNS  STRAIGHT     259 

man  crook.  Miss  Gryce,  I'm  going  to  take  you 
to  the  police-station,  where  you  can  tell  what  this 
bird's  been  trying  to  do,  and " 

Even  when  de  Grecque  drew  his  gun,  Fallon 
did  not  falter.  He  must  have  known  that  de 
Grecque  meant  business;  but  he  must  also  have 
determined  to  die  as  he  had  not  lived — well. 
Brave  deeds  are  not  always  the  outcome  of  plan, 
of  thought,  of  determination.  History  is  full  of 
paradox.  Fallon,  the  rat-souled,  was  lion- 
hearted  now.  Head  up,  facing  de  Grecque's  bul- 
let, he  charged.  Honour,  decency,  self-control 
— these  meant  nothing  to  Fallon.  But  some- 
where down  in  his  heart  lurked  a  love  for  the 
land  that  had  given  his  ancestors  refuge,  and — • 
Fallon  died  for  that  land.  Half  an  hour  ago 
Fallon  himself  would  have  willingly  admitted 
his  cowardice,  would  have  admitted  that  he  would 
not  face  death  for  his  country.  But  this  was 
half  an  hour  later,  and  he  had  seen  a  girl  threat- 
ened; had  seen  a  girl  smile  at  the  threat  of  death. 

De  Grecque  fired  only  once;  he  was  too  sure 
of  his  aim  to  look,  even,  at  the  prostrate  body 
of  Fallon.  He  was  too  busy  muffling  the  scream 
of  Lydia. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

THE   SPY   MACHINERY 

ON  the  threshold  of  the  room  Lydia  stopped. 
De  Grecque  released  the  shoulder  by  which  he 
had  half  led,  half  pushed  her  from  the  limousine 
that  had  conveyed  them  from  the  Forty-seventh 
Street  refuge  of  Lydia  to  this  old-fashioned 
house  a  few  doors  from  Bryant  Park. 

His  eyes  did  not  roll  now;  they  were  steady 
upon  her.  Rogan,  in  the  room,  his  arm  in  an  im- 
prorised  sling,  felt  his  heart  grow  chill.  His  lips 
did  not  move,  but  his  eyes  were  a  pleading 
prayer.  But  it  was  a  prayer  unseen,  unheard. 
Over  Lydia's  face  spread  contempt. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Rogan,"  she  said. 
"To  sell  me  out " 

De  Grecque  was  at  her  side.  His  finger, 
shaking  with  excitement,  pointed  at  Rogan.  "So 
that — that  is — Rogan?"  he  cried. 

The  girl  turned  and  stared  at  him.  "Why, 

of "  She  stopped.  She  saw  her  error.  De 

Grecque  knew  the  name  of  Rogan,  knew  what 
that  name  stood  for,  but — he  did  not  know  Ro- 

260 


THE  SPY  MACHINERY  261 

gan's  identity.  She  had  been  wrong,  then.  Re- 
gan had  not  pretended,  for  some  ulterior  purpose, 
to  aid  her  escape,  and  in  reality  keep  her  under 
surveillance.  He  had  not  turned  her  over  to 
de  Grecque.  He  was  loyal  to  her,  and — she  had 
betrayed  him. 

For  de  Grecque  had  brushed  past  her  into  the 
room.  At  a  signal  from  him  two  men  leaped 
upon  Rogan.  His  revolver  was  pulled  from  his 
pocket,  and  he,  unarmed,  helpless,  was  hurled 
into  a  chair  and  held  there  by  his  captors.  And 
over  him  stood  de  Grecque.  Smilingly  for  a  full 
minute  de  Grecque  stared  down  upon  the  heav- 
ily-breathing Rogan. 

"And  so,  at  last,  we  meet  again,  Rogan,"  he 
said  slowly.  "You  have  been  Heinrich  Graff e, 
you  have  been  many  people,  many  things,  Ro- 
gan, but — we  meet  at  last." 

Rogan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  A  moment 
ago  his  eyes  had  held  a  prayer  as  they  rested  upon 
the  face  of  Lydia  Gryce,  but  now  they  were  cold, 
icily  defiant. 

"The  many  things  that  I  have  been  seem  ama- 
teurish with  the  things  that  the  Graf  von  Schoen- 
tal  has  been,"  he  said.  "Also,  though  the  Graf 
von  Schoental  may  think  differently,  honourable 
men  will  consider  that  I  have  played  clean  parts." 

De  Grecque  frowned.     It  was  with  difficulty 


262  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

that  he  hid  a  start  as  Rogan  called  him  by  his 
real  name. 

"You  know  too  much,  Rogan,"  he  said,  "you 
understand?" 

Rogan  smiled.  "I  understand — fully,  von 
Schoental.  Let  us  hope  that  you,  too,  understand. 
You  are  a  shrewd  man,  von  Schoental " 

"Why  do  you  call  me  that,  Rogan?"  inter- 
rupted de  Grecque. 

"Why  not?    It  is  your  name." 

"And  you  learned  it — how?" 

"A  moment  ago  I  said  that  I  hoped  that  you 
would  understand,"  answered  Rogan.  "Why 
waste  your  time  and  mine  asking  questions?" 

De  Grecque  raised  his  eyebrows.  "To  waste 
your  time?  You  have  little  time,  Rogan,  un- 
less  " 

Rogan  slowly  shook  his  head.  "There  is  no 
'unless.'  " 

De  Grecque  pursed  his  lips.  "Who  can  be 
sure  of  that?  Rogan,  as  I  have  said,  you  know 
too  much.  There  are  things  that  need  explana- 
tion." 

"And  yet,"  smiled  Rogan,  "they  will  never  be 
explained.  You  will  go  to  your  firing-squad, 
von  Schoental,  wondering  how — why." 

"Perhaps,"  said  de  Grecque  shortly.  "Just 
now,  Rogan,  I  am  not  bothered  by  the  thought 


THE  SPY  MACHINERY  263, 

of  firing-squads.  There  is  an  adage — catch  your 
hare." 

Rogan  nodded.  "That  is  true.  But  the  hunters 
are  close." 

"Possibly,"  assented  de  Grecque.  "But  the 
first  hound — he  does  not  bay  to  tell  them  where 
the  quarry  is.  Listen,  Rogan,  a  game  is  at- 
tractive so  long  as  one  is  a  player,  or  when  one 
has  a  wager  on  the  winning  team." 

"There  speaks  the  German,"  sneered  Rogan. 
"An  American  sometimes  prefers  to  back  a  loser. 
But,  as  it  happens,  America  is  backing  the  win- 
ner this  time." 

"We  will  not  argue  it,"  said  de  Grecque.  "At 
least,  it  must  be  quite  apparent  that  you,  individ- 
ually, have  lost." 

Rogan  was  nonchalant.  "You  have  not  won, 
you  know." 

"But  I  shall."  De  Grecque  was  calmly  com- 
placent. "Rogan,  you  fooled  me.  I  thought  you 
dead.  My  compliments,  you  are  a  clever  man; 
but  not  quite  clever  enough.  For  God  is  with  the 
German  cause,  and  that  cause  can  not  lose.  Why 
balk  at  the  inevitable?  Be  sensible.  Germany 
can  use  a  man  like  you " 

Rogan  looked  from  de  Grecque  to  Lydia.  He 
smiled  whimsically.  "The  German  mind.  Be- 
hold its  workings,  Miss  Gryce.  They  can  not  un- 


264  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

derstand  decency."  He  turned  to  de  Grecque. 
"Suppose  you  assume  that  I'm  a  maniac,  bent  on 
self-destruction,  and  let  it  go  at  that?" 

"But  listen,"  said  de  Grecque.  "What  have 
you  to  gain?  Who  is  going  to  know  that  you 
died  for  America?  No  one.  Always,  in  the  rec- 
ords of  your  state  department,  the  name  of  Re- 
gan will  be  written  down  as  one  who,  for  money, 
betrayed  his  native  land.  That  record  cannot 
be  erased.  If  it  should  become  known  I  could 
understand  your  refusing  now,  while  there  is  yet 
time,  your  lot  with  Germany.  But  to  die  for  a 
country  that  will  never  know  your  sacrifice " 

"I'll  know  it,  won't  I?"  demanded  Rogan. 

De  Grecque  laughed.  "You  are  one  of  those 
intellectual  infants  who  believe  in  a  life  after 
death.  That  would  be  scant  comfort  to  me,  Ro- 
gan. The  life  after  death  is  the  memory '  one 
leaves.  And  only  the  memory  of  the  great,  or 
the  infamous,  endures.  Yours  will  be  the  mem- 
ory of  the  infamous.  No  matter  what  you  have 
tried  to  do  now,  there  remains  only  the  knowl- 
edge that  you  sold  your  country's  secrets  five 
years  ago." 

"Not  the  knowledge — the  belief,"  corrected 
Rogan. 

"A  quibble.  A  belief  that  is  firmly  enough 
fixed  becomes  knowledge  in  time,  Rogan.  Lis- 


THE  SPY  MACHINERY  265 

ten!  You  are  not,  have  not  been,  accredited  by 
your  Government.  Because  you  wished  to  re- 
move a  stain  from  your  name  you  have  tried  to 
oppose  me.  You  have  failed.  The  stain  remains. 
Why  not  be  sensible  and  gain  from  me,  from 
Germany,  the  regard  that  your  own  Govern- 
ment withholds  from  you?" 

Rogan  simply  smiled.  But  de  Grecque  would 
not  be  put  off. 

"You  took  from  me  a  paper,  Rogan.  It  was 
a  valuable  paper.  It  assured  to  me  the  support 
of  Stephen  Gryce.  Rogan,  I  want  that  paper." 

Rogan  shook  his  head.    "I  haven't  it." 

"But  you  know  who  has  it.  Will  you  give  me 
his  name?  Why  not?  If  you  don't,  Deems  will. 
But  reward  will  be  paid  to  but  one.  Shall  it  be 
you,  or  shall  it  be  to  Deems?" 

"I  suppose  you  can  produce  Deems,  eh?" 
questioned  Rogan. 

"He  will  be  found,"  asserted  de  Grecque. 

Rogan  yawned.  "Well,  suppose  after  you've 
found  that  young  feller  you  come  around  and 
talk  with  me  again." 

De  Grecque  glared  a  moment  at  the  insolently 
smiling  Rogan.  Then  he  faced  Lydia. 

"Miss  Gryce,  I  give  you  one  last  opportunity. 
You  have  seen  that  I  am  in  earnest.  I  should 
regret — you  are  a  most  remarkable  woman.  I 


266  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

have  thought — but  you  know  what  I  have 
thought.  I  shall  not  repeat  again  my  offer.  But 
Germany  comes  first  with  me.  There  is  a  chance 
for  you.  I  was  in  possession  of  a  certain  letter 
signed  by  your  father.  Had  I  it  in  my  possession 
I  could  make  terms  with  him  whether  he  willed 
or  no,  whether  or  no  he  has  changed  his  mind 
since  he  wrote  that  note.  If  you  know  where  that 
letter  is,  if  you  can  deliver  it  to  me — Miss  Gryce, 
you  will  save  your  father's  life." 

The  girl  laughed  at  him.  "The  German  mind 
can  not  comprehend  that  there  are  people  who 
will  not  yield  to  threat." 

"And  yet,"  he  said  softly,  "you  screamed  not 
so  long  ago." 

She  grew  whiter.  Her  mouth  set  in  a  firm  line. 
She  met  his  glance  bravely. 

"I  have,"  said  de  Grecque,  "but  to  give  a  cer- 
tain signal  and  your  father  dies." 

"There  has  been  much  of  threat  in  your  words," 
said  Lydia,  "but  little  of  deeds.  My  father" — 
her  voice  broke  only  momentarily — "can  take 
care  of  himself — and  will.  This  is  the  city  of 
New  York,  and  there  are  limits  to  what  you  can 
do." 

"You  think  so?  You  would  not,  of  course,  be- 
lieve me  if  I  told  you  that  your  father  can  not 
possibly  leave  his  house?  You  told  him  to  look 


THE  SPY  MACHINERY  267 

in  a  certain  drawer — my  dear  Miss  Gryce,  I  do 
not  mind  looking  in  that  drawer.  He  can  not 
deliver  its  contents  to  any  one  who  can  do  me 
harm.  No  power  on  earth  can  save  your  father 
once  I  have  given  the  word.  But  that  word — I 
hesitate  to  give  it. 

"I  will  he  frank  with  you.  Germany  does  not 
wish  her  hand  forced.  To  do  by  diplomacy  that 
which  it  is  amply  able  to  do  by  force — that  is  the 
road  that  Germany  prefers  to  travel." 

"To  lie  rather  than  to  fight,"  jeered  Rogan. 

De  Grecque's  face  was  impassive.  "That  is  a 
cheap  retort,  my  friend.  Since  when  has  the 
German  shown  himself  afraid  to  fight?" 

Rogan  laughed.  "Never — when  the  odds  are 
with  him.  But  when  the  armies  opposed  to  him 
are  equal — then,  von  Schoental,  we  shall  know 
the  valour  of  the  Germans." 

De  Grecque  shook  his  head.  "You  will  never 
know,  Rogan.  Unless — once  more  I  make  my 
offer,  and  tell  you  why  I  make  it.  To  keep  your 
country  out  of  the  war,  save  in  word  only — 
frankly,  we  Germans  do  not  wish  another  active 
<enemy.  If  by  propaganda,  by  instilling  unrest, 
by  blocking  legislation — that  angers  you.  Be- 
cause you  are  short-sighted.  Germany  will  win 
this  war.  We  Germans  know  that;  the  world 
knows  it.  Why  make  it  more  bloody?  Why  roll 


268  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

up  hatred?  We  wish  no  enmity  from  you;  we 
hold  none  toward  you." 

"You  simply  kill  your  people  because  they  are 
in  your  way,"  said  Rogan. 

"That  is  the  literal  truth,"  said  de  Grecque. 
"And  we  feel  no  shame  therefor.  But  listen:  to 
kill  Stephen  Gryce — I  do  not  wish  to  order  that 
done.  He  can  be  useful — also — we  show  our 
hand.  I  am  honest  with  you.  His  death  works 
us  an  injury,  but — we  must  suffer  that  injury, 
unless " 

He  looked  at  Rogan.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
girl.  His  eyes  hardened;  his  mouth  grew 
harsher.  He  walked  to  a  telephone. 

"So  be  it,"  he  said. 

In  a  fire-house,  not  five  blocks  away  from  the 
home  of  Stephen  Gryce,  men  of  unmistakably 
Teutonic  faces  conversed  nervously,  in  subdued 
tones  with  each  other.  Several  of  them  wore 
crude  bandages,  and  upon  a  couch  one  tossed 
and  groaned  and  muttered  guttural  German 
prayers.  Another  lay  very  still. 

In  the  dormitory  up-stairs  were  half  a  dozen 
men;  they  were  stripped  to  their  underclothing, 
and  their  feet  and  hands  were  bound.  Also  they 
were  gagged.  Over  them  stood  a  guard,  and  ever 
and  again  he  touched  the  bonds  that  held  them, 


THE  SPY  MACHINERY  269 

assuring  himself  that  the  prisoners  were  no  nearer 
effecting  release  than  when  they  had  been  over- 
come. 

Outside  the  door,  lounging  in  apparent  care- 
lessness, but  with  every  nerve  quivering,  stood 
one  of  the  men.  He  passed  the  time  of  night  with 
a  policeman  who  passed  by.  The  policeman 
saluted  carelessly.  But  the  lounging  man  nodded 
approvingly.  Careless  though  the  officer's  ges- 
ture was,  there  was  a  snap  to  it  that  had  only 
been  instilled  by  army  training.  And  by  Ger- 
man army  training. 

Inside,  a  man  called  softly  to  the  lounger. 

"Everything  is  all  right,  Conrad." 

Out  of  the  side  of  his  mouth  Conrad  answered. 

"Brobner  just  passed  by;  he  wears  the  police- 
man's uniform.  No  one  seems  to  suspect.  It  is 
all  right." 

The  man  within  swore  softly.  "Yes.  All 
right!  Unless  some  prying  fire  official  comes 
around  on  inspection — what  then,  my  Conrad?" 

The  lounger  drew  himself  up.  "We  kill  him — 
and  we  die.  It  is  for  the  Fatherland." 

"The  Fatherland!  Yes!  But  this  is  a  plan — 
it  was  to  be  used  only  when  the  great  hour  ap- 
proached— not  for  six  hours  at  least.  Not  until 
our  submarines  were  in  the  outer  harbour ;  when 
our  air-planes  were  above  the  city;  when  our 


270  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

reservists  over  here  were  summoned  near;  when 
they  were  armed — some  one  has  blundered.  To 
jeopardise  everything  for  the  sake  of  getting  one 
man — why  not  kill  him  and  have  done  with  it? 
To  do  this — — " 

"You  do  not  understand,"  answered  Conrad. 
Casually  he  glanced  up  and  down  the  street.  It 
was  dawn.  The  rattle  of  the  milk-wagons  broke 
the  stillness ;  on  Third  Avenue  the  elevated  trains 
rumbled.  But  no  passers-by  disturbed  the  soli- 
tude of  the  street.  Conrad  entered  the  fire- 
house. 

"To  kill  this  man — it  is  not  enough.  Suppose 
a  burglar  entered  his  house  and  killed  him,  and 
all  his  servants.  It  is  a  huge  house;  to  search  it 
thoroughly  would  take  time.  It  could  not  be 
done.  And  there  is,  von  Schoental  fears,  evidence 
in  that  house  that  will  bring  our  plans  to  noth- 
ing. At  first — two  hours  ago — to  guard  him  un- 
til von  Schoental  could  come — that  was  enough. 
But  an  hour  ago  his  daughter  was  captured  and 
— she  has  left  in  her  home,  in  a  certain  spot,  evi- 
dence. We  must  get  it." 

"But  a  burglar  could  do  that,"  grumbled  the 
other. 

"When  Gryce  has  broken  with  us ;  when  Gryce 
knows  our  plans?  You  are  absurd,"  exclaimed 
Conrad.  "And  when  Gryce  knows  our  plans — 


THE  SPY  MACHINERY  271 

suspects  their  aims,  at  least?  Ridiculous.  As 
long  as  Gryce  was  in  ignorance  of  our  aims — all 
right.  Unsuspected  a  man  could  enter  the  houses 
But  now — he  is  armed,  undoubtedly.  The  noise 
— there  is  only  one  way  to  drown  the  noise,  and 
that  is  this  way.  A  fire — the  engine  coming — 
anything  may  happen." 

"Unless  he  has  begun  firing  from  his  window 
now,  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  police,"  ob- 
jected the  other. 

Conrad  nodded.  "But  he  will  not  do  that, 
Hans.  Do  you  know  why?  Because  he  has 
looked  from  his  window ;  he  has  seen  our  men  out- 
side. He  knows  that  a  shot  from  him  will  be  the 
signal  for  a  rush  that  he  can  not  withstand.  He 
knows  that.  But  while  we  delay — he  knows  that 
we  will  die  in  our  effort  to  kill  him.  But  he  feels 
that  every  moment  that  we  delay  our  attack  im- 
proves his  chances.  All  men,  cornered,  feel  that 
way.  It  is  human  nature.  Luck  will  turn.  And 
so  he  waits.  Something  may  turn  up.  Besides, 
it  is  quite  incredible,  according  to  these  Yankee 
ideas,  that  harm  can  really  come  to  him  in  his 
home.  A  siege  of  his  house !  Absurd !  He  can  wait. 
Only,"  and  Conrad  chuckled  grimly,  "he  does 
not  know  how  careful  are  the  German  plans." 

"And  yet,"  grumbled  Hans,  "I  still  maintain 
that  it  is  foolish  of  us.  This  plan — the  police  will 


272  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

know  of  it  to-morrow — to-day !  And  never  again 
will  we  be  able  to  control  the  fire-houses — a  great 
plan  sacrificed  for  small  gain." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Conrad.     "And  yet — I  trust 

the  brain  of  von  Schoental "    He  broke  off 

suddenly ;  a  telephone  was  ringing.  He  answered 
it.  He  listened  silently  for  a  moment.  Then  he 

m 

answered  in  a  monosyllabic  affirmative.  He  hung 
up  the  telephone.  He  turned  to  the  others. 

"You  are  ready?    Yes?    Then  let  us  start." 

Clamour  broke  out  in  the  fire-house.  Up-stairs 
the  prisoners  stirred  uneasily;  they  strained  at 
their  bonds.  But  the  ready  revolver  of  the  man 
guarding  them  made  them  refrain.  Only  their 
eyes,  burning  with  resentment,  spoke  their  defi- 
ance. 

Conrad  went  to  the  foot  of  the  pole  leading  up 
to  the  dormitory.  He  called  to  the  guard. 

"Stay  here  just  fifteen  minutes,  Richter.  Then 
come  down,  and — Hauptman  is  badly  wounded. 
The  damned  swine  hurt  him  badly  with  their  axes 
before  we  overpowered  them.  He  can  not  live. 
If  he  lived — he  might  talk.  He  can  not  live, 
Richter." 

Richter  understood.  "He  will  not  live,"  he 
replied. 

And  then  the  motor-fire  apparatus  charged 
from  the  building. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 


GBYCE  looked  up  from  the  manuscript.  He  had 
been  engrossed  in  it  for  ten  minutes,  and  every 
word  of  it  was  burned  forever  in  his  brain.  A 
lesser  man  could  have  spent  thirty  minutes  read- 
ing it  and  memorised  none  of  it.  But  Gryce  could 
have  recited  it,  names,  dates,  figures  and  all,  al- 
most verbatim.  From  his  breast-pocket  he  drew 
a  blue  copy-pencil.  He  wrote  a  line  on  the  mar-, 
gin  of  the  first  page,  and  signed  his  name  to  it. 
Then  he  put  the  manuscript  back  in  its  envelope. 
He  addressed  the  envelope.  He  sealed  it.  He 
reached  forward  and  dropped  it  in  a  slot  in  his 
desk.  His  eyes  took  on  a  far-away  expression. 
He  had  been  behind  the  times;  he,  who  prided 
himself  on  being  the  livest,  the  most  progressive 
newspaper  man  in  America,  and  that  meant  the 
world,  was  hopelessly  in  the  rear  of  the  proces- 
sion. While  he  had  been  deluding  himself,  his 
daughter,  a  woman,  had  been  doing  things  whose 
bigness  amazed  him. 

Amazed  him?    More  than  that;  shamed  him. 

273 


27*  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

For  he  had  been  hindering  his  country  while  she 
helped  it.  In  the  greatest  crisis  of  its  existence, 
he  had  been  one  of  her  enemies.  And  it  did  not 
matter  that  his  heart  had  been  honest,  his  inten- 
tions good.  He  knew  the  mythical  place  that 
was  paved  with  good  intentions. 

How  had  she  done  it  ?  How  had  she  been  capa- 
ble of  it?  A  charming  girl;  a  fascinating,  lovely 
woman,  but — he  had  not  known  her !  Other  peo- 
ple— and  he  was  abashed — had  known  her  better 
than  had  he.  Great  men  had  trusted  her,  and — 
well,  that  was  all  past.  For  that  matter,  per-* 
haps,  for  him,  everything  in  this  life  was  past.  It 
didn't  matter.  At  the  end,  Lydia  understood 
him,  forgave  him,  and — he  understood  her. 

"They're  a  few  more  of  them,  Mr.  Gryce." 

It  was  Deems  watching  at  the  window.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  trembling,  stood  Fergu- 
son. As  Gryce  glanced  up  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
old  man.  The  publisher  thanked  the  good  God 
that  none  of  the  women  servants  were  at  home. 
A  death  had  occurred  in  the  family  of  one  of  the 
servants  and  all  the  household  save  Ferguson 
were  somewhere  on  Long  Island,  comforting  the 
sorrower.  There  would  be,  if  it  came  to  that,  one 
less  murder  in  the  Gryce  household  to-night. 

"Afraid,  Ferguson?"  he  asked.  "You  shouldn't 
be.  You  and  I — we  are  getting  on,  you  know. 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  275 

There  aren't  so  many  years  ahead  of  us,  at  best. 
We  shouldn't  mind  death,  you  and  I." 

Ferguson's  eyes  glowed.  "I'm  scared,  Mr. 
Gryce!  Awful  scared!  But  I'm  persuadin'  my- 
self that  I  ain't,  and  by  and  by  I  won't  be." 

Gryce  laughed  aloud.  Somehow,  in  this  mo- 
ment that  might  prove  to  be  almost  the  last,  he 
was  renewing  the  moment  of  youth,  when  life 
had  held  savour  and  yet  was  not  precious;  when 
life  had  been  wonderful  and  yet  not  at  all  re- 
markable. He'd  been  getting  flabby,  of  late 
years.  He  shook  his  head.  Pacificism  was  a  men- 
tal disease  that  affected  the  body.  It  made  a  man 
flabby-souled.  Everything  that  he  possessed  in 
the  world,  all  that  he  had  achieved,  had  come  to 
him  after  struggle.  Struggle  was  the  law  of  the 
world.  And  fighting  was  but  the  outgrowth  of 
that  law.  In  the  millennium,  when  there  was  no 
evil,  right  would  not  have  to  arm  itself  against 
wrong;  but  while  evil  existed,  men  must  be  pre- 
pared to  wage  war  against  it.  And  he,  flabby- 
souled,  had  denied  this  elemental  law!  Well,  he 
would  pay  for  his  folly,  even  with  his  life,  were 
that  final  payment  asked  of  him. 

"More  of  'em,  eh,  Deems?"  he  asked.  "Well, 
they  pay  us  a  high  compliment." 

Deems  grinned  gaily  back  at  him.  Then  he 
sobered. 


276  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 


"Your  daughter " 

"I'm  trying  not  to  think  of  her,  Deems,"  said 
Gryce.  "She — well,  we  know  what  she  has  donej 
and  somehow  I  can't  make  myself  believe  that 
this  is  all  real.  There's  decency  in  the  world. 
God  rules  the  world.  He  wouldn't  let  a  girl  like 
her  suffer." 

"That's  why  I'm  able  to  laugh,"  said  Deems. 
"De  Grecque  will  have  an  ace  in  the  hole— al- 
ways. She's  safe  until  he's  won  out  all  the  way. 
He*  can  save  his  skin  through  her.  And  as  he 

won't  win  out  all  the  way Do  you  suppose 

the  police — real  policemen — would  hear  us  if  we 
fired  our  revolvers?" 

"They'd  rush  us,"  said  Gryce.  "We  wouldn't 
last  three  minutes.  They're  desperate.  My  God, 
if  you'd  read  Lydia's  notes!  You'd  know  how 
desperate  they  must  be.  We  don't  want  'em  to 
rush  us.  If  we  hold  off,  the  longer  they  delay 
the  better  for  us.  And — I'm  thinking  de  Grecque 
will  offer  us  terms  again.  We'll  wait.  Not  that 
we'll  take  them — Deems,  I  don't  think  that  he'd 
dare  do  anything  to  Lydia.  Not  while  we're 

alive.  And  so  we  must  hang  on We're,  a 

deadly  threat  to  him — where's  the  fire?" 

Down  the  street  clanged  the  motor-engines. 
Deems  peered  through  his  window. 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  277 

"Can't  tell — must  be  across  the  street — they're 
stopping — they're  coming — here — Gryce,  they're 
here,  and " 

"And  you'll  notice,  youngster,  that  our  friends 
below  are  climbing  the  stoop  with  them.  Do  you 
see  it?  Deems,  you're  a  good  boy.  And,  if  I'm 
any  judge  of  men,  it  wasn't  presumptuous  of 
you  to  fall  in  love  with  my  daughter,  and  I'm 
kinda  inclined  to  believe  that  she  probably  re- 
turned the  compliment,  and — shall  we  give  our 
friends  the  trouble  of  climbing  the  stairs,  or  shall 
we  greet  them  like  courteous  hosts,  half-way?" 

"You  are  an  older  man  than  I,"  said  Deems 
solemnly.  "You  know  more  of  etiquette.  But  I 
should  say  that  the  scrap  ahead  of  us  promises 
to  be  a  nice  scrap,  an  honest-to-God  affair.  It 
would  be  treating  such  an  affair  only  kindly  to 
go  down  and  meet  it  and  take  it  by  the  hand  and 
welcome  it." 

Above  the  din  of  the  fire-axes  battering  against 
the  front  door,  above  the  roars  of  the  pseudo- 
firemen,  above  the  curious  cries  of  the  neighbours, 
the  spectators  who  sprang  from  nowhere,  the 
great  guffaw  of  Gryce  boomed. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "if  we  ever  do  get  out  of  this, 
and  Lydia  doesn't  marry  you,  I'll  adopt  you. 
I  need  a  son  like  you."  Their  hands  touched  for 


278  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

a  moment.  And  they  fell  apart  as  old  Ferguson 
drew  close  to  them. 

"I  have  a  poker,"  he  said.    "And  maybe— 

Deems  took  the  poker  from  his  withered  hand. 
He  laughed  aloud.  "And  Germany  thinks  she 
can  whip  a  race  of  Fergusons,  Mr.  Gryce." 

He  put  the  revolver  that  was  his  only  weapon 
into  the  hands  of  the  old  man.  "Aim  low,"  he 
counselled. 

Then  he  swung  the  poker  about  his  head.  He 
looked  questioningly  at  Gryce.  Though  they 
uttered  no  word,  each  knew  what  was  in  the 
other's  heart.  But  they  were  strong  men,  and  to 
mention  the  name  of  Lydia  now,  now  when  the 
end  was  at  hand,  was  to  invite  breakdown. 

"I'm  first,"  said  Gryce. 

"Let's  divide  the  position,"  said  Deems. 

Side  by  side,  Ferguson  bringing  up  the  rear, 
they  advanced  into  the  hall.  The  stormers  were 
half-way  up  the  stairs. 

Into  the  thick  of  them  Gryce  fired.  Kneeling, 
old  Ferguson  sent  shot  after  shot  into  the  packed 
group.  But  they  did  not  falter.  Up  they  came 
until  they  were  within  range  of  Deems's  heavy 
poker.  He  swung  it  three  times  before  he  went 
down.  Ferguson  was  down  already ;  Gryce  alone 
held  his  feet,  but  the  foe  clung  to  him  like  ter- 
riers. Then  blackness  came  to  Deems. 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  279 

He  awoke,  to  find  the  glaring  eyes  of  de 
Grecque  boring  into  his  own.  He  ached  all  over ; 
his  wrist  was  stiff,  and  coagulated  blood  half 
blinded  him.  With  his  good  hand  he  wiped  the 
stiff  crust  away.  And  then  all  ache  left  him,  for 
across  the  room  from  him  sat  Lydia  Gryce.  And 
though  she  was  white,  wan,  thin-seeming,  she 
was  alive,  and  the  eyes  that  met  his  were  brave. 
New  life  entered  the  veins  of  Deems.  He  sat  up. 

"That  is  better,"  said  de  Grecque.  "Schnapps 
hurts  no  man." 

And  then  Deems  understood  the  burning  sen- 
sation in  his  throat.  He  pushed  away  the  glass 
that  de  Grecque  held  out  to  him. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said. 

He  looked  about  him.  Rogan  was  here,  so  was 
Ferguson,  and  so  was  Gryce.  The  big  man  was 
more  badly  battered-appearing  even  than 
Deems,  but  he  was  here.  And  old  Ferguson  did 
not  seem  badly  hurt,  either.  Deems  remem- 
bered, suddenly,  that  the  attackers  had  used  no 
firearms.  He  was  soon  to  understand  why. 

"Deems,"  said  de  Grecque,  "some  time  ago  I 
offered  you  money  for  a  certain  thing.  You  have 
not  forgotten?" 

Deems  made  no  answer.  He  merely  looked  at 
de  Grecque. 

"That  document  still  has  value.    Because  it  is 


280  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

of  so  great  value  I  have  had  you  all  brought  here 
alive.  One  of  you  must  talk.  The  servant  here 
— I  have  questioned  him;  I  do  not  believe  that 
he  knows  of  it.  But  Gryce,  Miss  Gryce,  Rogan 
— and  you,  Deems,  know  of  it.  Gryce  denies 
having  written  it.  His  daughter  refuses  to  tell 
me  anything ;  Rogan  sneers.  But  you — I  pledge 
my  word,  Deems,  that  whatever  you  ask  in  the 
way  of  money,  provided  it  is  not  too  fantastic  a 
sum,  whatever  safeguards  of  secrecy  you  de- 
sire  " 

"You  may  as  well  save  your  breath,  de 
Grecque,"  interrupted  Deems.  "I  haven't  the 
paper.  I  don't  know  where  it  is." 

"You  had  it,"  exclaimed  de  Grecque,  "and— 
perhaps  you  think  that  there  is  a  chance  for  you. 
You  should  not  think  so;  enough  has  happened 
within  the  past  hour  to  show  you  that  there  is  no 
limit  to  what  will  be  done  to  regain  that  paper. 
[You,  Gryce — you  are  unpopular  now.  Your 
newspapers  have  attempted  to  hinder  the  prose- 
cution of  the  war.  That  paper — no  matter  how 
you  change  your  views,  how  earnestly  you  pro- 
fess that  change,  the  American  people  will  not 
forget  that  you  were  guilty  of  treason.  They  will 
destroy  you.  Even  what  has  happened  to-night 
— it  can  be  explained.  Your  Apaches  here  can 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  281 

be  blamed  for  anything.  But  that  paper!  Sur- 
render it,  and  you  go  free,  all  of  you— 

"You're  a  maniac,  de  Grecque,"  snapped 
Gryce.  "You  talk  like  a  fool.  Rogan  here — all 
of  us — we're  serving  our  country.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that,  even  if  I  had  been  criminal  enough  to 
write  such  a  letter,  my  daughter,  my  friend 
Deems  here,  or  Rogan,  would  fail  to  lay  against 
you  the  charges  of  murder,  of  treachery,  of  which 
they  know  you  to  be  guilty?  You  are  a  maniac!" 

De  Grecque  laughed.  "You  say  that  because 
you  think  I  can  not  get  hold  of  it.  I  understand. 
Rather  than  let  the  world  know  that  you  had 
been  guilty  of  treason,  you  would  die.  But  if  I 
let  you  live — you  would  not  dare  make  a  move 
against  me.  You  wrote  a  letter  to  Senator  Ran- 
dall. I  saw  it.  I  bought  it " 

"From  whom?"  demanded  Gryce. 

"From  Randall's  private  secretary.  I  read  it; 
I  paid  him ;  he  gave  it  to  me.  I  sent  word  of  it 
to  our  Ambassador.  He  cabled  word  to  GerJ 
many.  Great  plans  were  made  because  of  the 
lever  held  over  you,  with  all  your  publications. 
I  was  not  crude,  I  tried  to  win  you  by  subtlety. 
But  all  the  time — my  superiors  relied  on  my  hav- 
ing a  club  to  use — you  know  everything  now.  I 
must  face  them.  And  they  will  not  believe  me — 
they  will  condemn  me  for  my  recklessness;  they 


282  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

will  say  that  I  lied;  that  I  had  no  lever  to  use 
against  you — you  will  have  to  surrender  it.  I 
had  it.  Rogan  stole  it  from  me.  I  knew  who  he 
was;  I  recognised  him,  and  the  paper,  I  found, 
was  gone.  I  followed  him.  But  while  I  waited, 
the  police  came  to  Deems's  rooms,  and — I  saw 
Rogan  carried  away.  I  did  not  know  then  that 
he  was  also  Heinrich  GrafFe.  I  knew  him  to  be 
one  who  had  been  tricked  years  ago,  whose  own 
State  Department  thought  him  venal,  if  not  a 
traitor.  I  knew  him  to  be  clever,  but — he  was 
dead.  And  the  paper  was  not  upon  his  body. 
I  ascertained  that.  Deems  must  have  had  it. 
One  of  you  has  it  now.  I  will  search 

"Miss  Gryce,  if  you  have  that  paper  surrender 
it  now.  There  are  no  women  here,  and  yet  you 
will  be  searched." 

He  stopped.  The  girl  whitened.  She  mois- 
tened her  lips.  "Mr.  de  Grecque — I  have  a  pa- 
per— I  got  it  in  Mr.  Deems's  room,  but — it  is — 
look  at  it." 

From  her  bodice  she  drew  the  blank  piece  of 
waxed  paper  that  she  had  picked — it  seemed 
years  ago  to  Deems — from  the  floor  of  his  apart- 
ment. 

"It  will  be  well  not  to  play  with  me,  Miss 
Gryce,"  said  de  Grecque.  "The  real  paper — 

"Let  me  see  that,"  said  Rogan  sharply. 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  283 

De  Grecque  held  out  a  shaking  hand.  He  did 
not  let  Rogan  touch  the  paper,  but  held  it  up. 
The  sun,  streaming  through  the  window,  fell 
full  upon  it. 

"De  Grecque,  this  is  the  paper  I  took  from 
you.  You  need  not  believe  me.  Look  at  it. 
Against  the  light.  See  where  a  pen  has  scratched 
it?  Invisible  ink " 

"Invisible '  De  Grecque's  voice  shook. 

''Randall's  secretary  is  a  crook,"  said  Rogan. 
"I  knew  it;  but — there  were  bigger  things  in  the 
wind.  I  heard  him  read  that  letter  to  you.  I 
believed  it — but  it  was  vanishing  ink.  Only  the 
pen,  where  it  scratched  the  paper,  left  a  mark. 
But  that  is  the  paper.  Hold  a  candle  near 
it- 

De  Grecque  snatched  the  paper  away.  Trem- 
blingly he  lighted  a  match.  He  held  the  paper 
near  it.  Words  leaped  into  view. 

"But  this  is  Gryce's  handwriting,"  he  cried. 

Gryce  laughed.  Across  the  room  he  could  see 
the  writing.  "Anybody  familiar  with  my  hand 
will  deny  it,"  he  said. 

Rogan's  laugh  joined  that  of  Gryce. 

"I  heard  the  secretary  tell  you  that  that  letter 
had  been  written  three  days  earlier.  But  invisi- 
ble ink  vanishes  within  an  hour.  How  could  it 
have  been  three  days  old?  The  man  wrote  it 


284  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

himself.  He  could  imitate,  passably,  Gryce's 
handwriting,  but  not  well  enough  to  stand  a  test. 
He  knew  you'd  find  it  out.  But  if  the  paper  was 
blank — he  fooled  you  once,  he  could  do  it  again. 
He  lost  it.  As  you  lost  the  forgery.  Lost  it  to 
me,  who  was  also  fooled " 

De  Grecque's  shaking  fingers  tore  the  paper 
up. 

"Yes,  I  was  fooled,  made  a  dumb-head.  But — 
what  does  it  get  you?"  Triumphantly  his  voice 
rose,  "Now  that  I  know,  Rogan,  that  I  have  noth- 
ing to  gain  by  letting  you  live — you  fooll" 

"Think  so?"  Rogan  shook  his  head.  "I've  been 
believing  that  Stephen  Gryce  here  is  one  of  the 
biggest  traitors  unhung.  I'm  nobody  much,  and 
when  I'm  dead  I'll  amount  to  less,  but  if  I  died 
without  apologising  to  a  decent  man  for  think- 
ing him  what  he  wasn't What  does  it  get  us? 

Nothing.  But  you  don't  imagine  that  we  were 
idiots  enough  to  take  any  stock  in  your  promise 
to  let  any  of  us  free.  But  cheer  up,  de  Grecque. 
I  was  fooled,  too.  I  thought  that  Gryce  had 
written  that  letter." 

"So  did  I,"  breathed  Lydia.  She  looked  at 
her  father.  "Daddy!" 

Gryce  swallowed  deeply.  "S'all  right,  girlie. 
I've  been  a  fool,  and — it  won't  be  hard,  both  of 
us,  eh?" 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  285 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  And  then,  as 
she  met  the  eyes  of  Deems,  her  smile  faltered. 
And  Deems  knew  that  the  miracle  of  love  had 
happened  to  her,  too.  Death  was  not  half  as  bad 
as  it  might  have  been. 

De  Grecque's  harsh  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"This  is  all  very  pretty,"  he  said.  "Father  and 
daughter  forgiving  each  other,  and — phaugh!" 
His  revolver  gleamed  suddenly  in  his  hand. 
"You  are  swine,  you  Yankees,  swine.  You  fight 
Germany — 

His  last  word  was  clipped  off  shortly.  Outside 
a  newsboy  was  crossing  Bryant  Park;  he  was 
shrieking  at  the  top  of  his  lungs:  "German  plot 
exposed!  French  representative  German  spy! 
Publisher  of  Record  attacked,  killed,  maybe,  but 
story  gets  to  Record!  Record  extra!  Comte  de 
Grecque  German  spy " 

De  Grecque's  hand  went  to  his  throat.  "The 
boy  lies !  There  is  no  afternoon  Record!  He " 

Over  the  face  of  Gryce  spread  a  smile  that  was 
gay  as  the  smile  of  youth. 

"De  Grecque,  you  let  my  daughter  telephone 
me.  You  let  her  mention  a  drawer." 

"But  you  had  no  way  of  communicating — and 
your  house  is  burned  to  the  ground " 

Gryce's  smile  was  now  a  grin.  Death  was  a 
half  minute  away,  but  he  had  scored  the  greatest 


286  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

newspaper  "beat"  of  his  lifetime,  and  first,  last 
and  all  the  time  he  was  a  newspaper  man. 

"Those  were  notes  that  she  had  written,  ex- 
posing you  and  your  associates,  telling  what  you 
planned.  I  had  the  'goods,'  de  Grecque.  And 
you  gave  me  plenty  of  time  to  read  it.  And  there 
is  a  slot  in  my  desk,  de  Grecque.  I  write  ed- 
itorials late  at  night.  I  want  to  mail  them.  I  drop 
them  in  the  slot  and  they  land  in  the  mail-box  in 
front  of  my  house,  and — it  takes  more  than  a 
fire  to  stop  the  collection  of  mails,  de  Grecque. 
My  house  was  gone,  but  the  mail-box.  You  see 
it?  A  line  to  my  editors  telling  what  was  going 
on,  and  then  a  word  to  indicate  the  fashion  of 

setting  the  story Kill  us,  de  Grecque,  but — 

what  are  your  own  chances  of  escape?" 

The  glaring  eyes  of  de  Grecque  lost  their  wild- 
ness.  In  them  was  only  despair.  And  then  de- 
spair was  succeeded  by  maniacal  hatred.  His 
revolver  pointed  at  Gryce,  his  finger  on  the  trig- 
ger. But  before  he  could  fire  one  of  his  own 
followers  had  hurled  himself  upon  him. 

"Wait,  Graf!  Jail  is  bad,  but  death — that  is 
worse.  If  we  can  make — terms " 

For  a  moment  they  struggled;  blankly  the 
rest  of  de  Grecque's  followers  looked  on.  And 
Deems,  unnoticed,  edged  his  way  to  the  window. 


THE  RECORD  SCORES  A  BEAT  287 

But  the  cry  for  help  that  trembled  on  his  lips 
was  forced  back.  Already,  silently,  policemen 
were  mounting  the  stoop  of  the  old-fashioned 
house  that  faced  Bryant  Park* 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-ONE 

CAPT.   FARLEY   INVESTIGATES 

DETECTIVE  CAPTAIN  FARLEY  pressed  the  receiver 
closer  to  his  ear. 

"What's  that  again,  Lieutenant?"  he  asked. 

Lieutenant  Denton,  himself  fighting  against 
an  excitement  greater  than  that  of  the  detective 
captain,  swallowed  a  moment  before. he  repeated, 
more  verbosely,  the  message  that  he  had  just 
hurled  against  the  bored  ears  of  Farley: 

"Officer  Grander  just  reported.  Fine  cock- 
and-bull  story  he  had  to  tell.  Assaulted, 
drugged,  uniform  taken  from  him.  Sounded  like 
a  hop-head's  dream,  but — Officers  Reading, 
Lavey  and  Sirroco  reported  the  same  thing 
within  ten  minutes.  All  of  them  treated  the 
same  way.  The  last  three  of  them  stationed  near 
the  vicinity  of  Stephen  Gryce's  home." 

"Yes — get  to  it,"  snarled  Farley. 

"I  got  to  take  it  easy,  Captain,"  remonstrated 
the  precinct  commander.  "I  want  you  to  get  it 
all — Grander's  beat  included  the  Phoenix  fire- 
house.  Like  the  other  three,  he  came  to  a  dark 

288 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES  £89 

doorway.  Well,  he  passed  through  Phoenix 
Place  on  his  way  back  here  to  the  'house.'  No- 
ticed something  queer  about  the  fire-house.  No 
signs  of  life.  Head  was  splitting,  too,  and 
thought  he'd  'phone  in — nobody  about  down- 
stairs, except  two  dead  men.  One  of  them 
Grander  recognised — Fireman  Cassidy.  Head 
all  battered  up.  Uniform  stripped  off  him.  The 
other  man  was  unknown  to  Grander.  Killed 
with  axe  wounds.  Fire-axe,  it  might  have  been. 
Looked  like  a  German. 

"Grander  went  upstairs.  Found  half  a  dozen 
men;  all  of  'em  tied  up  and  gagged.  Released 
them — told  story  of  a  bunch  of  men  rushing  in 
on  them,  attacking  them;  killing  Fireman  Cas- 
sidy— overpowering  bunch — stripping  their 
clothes " 

"Crazy!"  breathed  Farley. 

"Yah,  like  foxes,"  cried  the  Lieutenant.  "For 
Officer  Reading  passed  by  Stephen  Gryce's  house 
on  way  home.  Burned — gutted.  Firemen  on 
the  job  told  him  that  they  couldn't  understand 
why  Phoenix  Place  company  wasn't  on  the  job. 
For  their  apparatus  was  there,  but — no  men.  By- 
standers said  Phoenix  men  had  been  there,  had 
broken  into  house — brought  out  Gryce  and  two 
other  men,  apparently  overcome  by  smoke — put 


290  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

two  and  two  together,  Captain.  A  plant,  to  rob 
Gryce " 

Captain  Farley's  ears  were  no  longer  bored. 
His  foot  was  pressing  on  a  buzzer,  and  a  sergeant 
of  detectives  was  pushing  open  the  door.  Imme- 
diately the  machinery  of  the  detective  depart- 
ment was  in  operation.  And  his  thoughts  turned 
at  once  to  Fallon. 

But  it  was  not  for  an  hour  that  the  Captain, 
so  rushed  with  other  details,  was  able  to  examine 
the  other  data  gathered  on  his  visitor  of  the  late 
night,  or  early  morning,  one  Randolph  Fallon. 
During  that  time  three  hundred  plainclothesmen 
had  been  detailed  to  the  case,  and  were  beginning 
that  painstaking  scouring  of  the  city  whereby 
the  greatest  results  in  detection  are  obtained. 

Randolph  Fallon  had  been  a  crank.  Cranks 
are  more  common  in  the  police  department  than 
anywhere  else.  Captain  Farley  had  become 
blase  to  them.  Even  the  criminal  crank,  like 
Fallon,  was  not  at  all  unusual.  Captain  Farley, 
had  not  this  later  development  arisen,  would 
probably  have  relegated  Fallon  to  that  myste- 
rious recess  in  the  back  of  his  brain  where  were 
placed  all  suspicious  characters  whose  presence 
in  a  cell  was  not  urgently  desirable  at  the  mo- 
ment. He  would  never  have  forgotten  Fallon, 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES  291 

but  the  man  would  have  been  submerged  in  his 
thoughts. 

But  this  new  development!  Everything  that 
appertained,  however  slightly,  to  Stephen  Gryce, 
was  of  potential  value.  The  files  of  the  depart- 
ment were  overhauled,  and  a  messenger  sent  post- 
haste to  the  office  of  the  Record.  That  messen- 
ger telephoned  his  report.  Fallen  was  known  to 
the  editor  sitting  in  on  the  "late  trick" ;  he  knew 
that  Fallen  had  recently  been  driving  a  taxicab. 
And  almost  simultaneously  Moriarity  reported 
the  address  of  Randolph  Fallen. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  plainclothesman  was  tele- 
phoning all  that  he  had  learned  of  Fallon's  re- 
cent activities.  The  sleepy  clerk  of  the  cheap 
hotel  had  been  frightened  into  loquacity  by  the 
presence  of  the  policeman. 

Farley  reviewed  the  information  he  had  gath- 
ered. Fallen,  once  a  newspaper  man,  with  a 
grudge  against  Gryce  because  of  his  discharge 
from  the  Record,  had  become  a  taxi-man.  Last 
night  he  had  sold  his  taxi  and  announced  that  he 
had  become  rich. 

Now,  Fallon  was  a  drunkard,  but — he  had 
been  canny  enough,  drunkard  though  he  was,  to 
ply  a  trade.  It  didn't  seem  quite  reasonable  that 
he'd  have  been  fool  enough  to  sell  his  means  of 
livelihood  and  blow  in  a  goodly  portion  of  the 


292  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

sum  that  he  had  realised — unless Neither 

was  it  reasonable  that  Lydia  "Gryce  should  have 
given  the  man  ten  thousand  dollars.  But,  if  one 
came  to  that,  the  sacking  of  Stephen  Gryce's 
home  was  not  reasonable,  was  not  credible. 
But — incredible  things  were  happening  in  the 
world  to-day.  Because  a  thing  seemed  absurd 
was  no  reason  for  Farley  to  dismiss  it. 

Moreover,  this  was  the  biggest  thing  that  had 
broken  in  New  York  in  Farley's  generation.  To 
solve  the  riddle — Farley  beheld  fame,  promotion, 
holding  out  beckoning  hands. 

It  had  been  clever ;  so  clever  that  it  argued  al- 
most unlimited  daring,  unlimited  money,  and  a- 
number  of  men.  Without  all  these  the  sacking 
of  Gryce's  house  could  not  have  been  accom- 
plished in  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been.  It 
sounded  exactly  like  the  sort  of  thing  that  Ger- 
man agents  would  have  attempted. 

That  the  night's  events  could  have  been  the 
work  of  a  band  of  criminals,  who  worked  for  gain 
alone,  was  too  absurd.  Farley  knew  the  handi- 
work of  every  criminal  in  the  country.  These 
were  no  new  workers  in  the  field  of  illegality. 
Not  that  they  were  the  less  criminal  because  they 
were  German  agents,  but  they  were  not  ordinary 
thieves. 

And  the  apprehending  of  men  such  as  these 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES     293 

would  be  a  man's-sized  job.  Farley  was  quite 
aware  of  that.  But  the  same  methods  that  ap- 
plied to  the  detection  and  apprehension  of  ordi- 
nary criminals  would  apply  in  this  case.  There 
was  but  the  one  rule  of  detection:  overlook 
nothing. 

So  Farley,  leaning  back  in  his  swivel  chair, 
pondered  the  situation.  Reports  came  to  him 
every  minute  almost,  from  the  plainclothesmen 
combing  the  city.  But  he  anticipated  little  result 
from  their  labours.  The  man,  or  men,  capable  of 
planning  the  attack  upon  the  Gryce  home  were 
not  the  sort  of  men  who,  their  labours  done,  would 
invite  arrest  by  splurging  in  low  cafes,  by  tell- 
ing their  achievements  to  loose  women  of  the  un- 
derworld who  would  inform  the  police. 

No,  this  was  a  case  where  the  ordinary  meth- 
ods could  not  be  relied  upon,  although  they  must 
be  used.  He  stirred  restlessly.  If  he  were  a 
genius,  he  would  think  at  once  of  some  method. 
But  he  wasn't.  The  telephone  rang.  That  was 
all  he  could  do;  answer  the  telephone,  and  give 
perfunctory  orders,  orders  that  could  just  as  well 
have  been  given  by  any  one  on  the  Force. 

The  Commissioner  arrived  two  hours  before 
his  usual  time. 

"If  you  want,  Captain,"  he  said,  "you  can  go 
home.  You've  been  up  all  night." 


294  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Farley  shook  his  head.  "I'll  stick  till  I  drop, 
Commissioner,"  he  declared. 

The  Commissioner  nodded  assent.  Together 
they  went  over  the  details,  so  far  as  they  were 
ascertainable,  of  the  attack  on  Gryce's  home. 

And  finally  the  Commissioner  shrugged.  "Of 
course,  we'd  like  to  keep  it  in  the  family,  Cap- 
tain," he  said,  "but — it's  German  stuff.  No 
question  about  that.  Though — Gryce  certainly 
hasn't  been  unfriendly  to  Germany.  Lots  of 
people  haven't  hesitated  to  call  him  a  traitor." 

"He  might  have  been  playing  a  game,"  sug- 
gested Farley,  "and  they  might  have  tumbled  to 
him " 

The  Commissioner  pursed  his  lips.  "Maybe, 
but — we'll  have  to  turn  the  matter  over  to  the 
Department  of  Justice.  It's  a  Federal  job." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Farley  disconsolately. 
He  was  as  patriotic  as  any  man,  and  so  long  as 
criminals  were  apprehended,  he,  as  a  good  serv- 
ant of  the  people,  should  not  mind  to  whom  went 
the  glory  of  their  capture.  But  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  been  the  sole  instrument  of  their 
arrest. 

The  Commissioner  reached  for  the  telephone, 
but  it  rang  before  he  touched  it.  He  answered. 
He  listened  for  a  couple  of  minutes.  Then  he 
replied : 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES  295 

"I  understand;  exactly." 

He  turned  to  Farley  as  he  hung  up.  "It's  the 
biggest  thing  that  ever  broke  in  this  town,  Cap- 
tain," he  said.  "The  Federal  officials  are  on  the 
job  already.  I  don't  get  much  of  it — but  they 
want  men  detailed  to  every  fire-house  in  town. 
Afraid  that  what  they  did  to  the  Phoenix  Place 
house  they  will  do  elsewhere.  Gryce  is  kid- 
napped. But  somehow  or  other  he  had  time  to 
write  a  note  to  his  paper.  Got  it  into  the  mail, 
A  lot  of  evidence  against  German  plotters, 
Comte  de  Grecque — you've  read  of  him — big 
French  emissary  over  here — he's  a  German  spy. 
It's  all  in  the  stuff  Gryce  mailed  to  his  paper. 
Special  delivery  carrier  brought  it  down  fifteen 
minutes  ago.  Gryce  is  kidnapped,  they  sup- 
pose. Record's  getting  out  an  extra.  Record  ed- 
itors communicated  with  Federal  people.  No 
word  to  newspaper  men.  Record  is  entitled  to  a 
'beat,'  say  the  Federal  crowd. 

"But  look  up  the  Gryce  girl.  She  may  have 
got  away.  The  Federal  officials  are  busy  on  an- 
other angle." 

"You  mean  that  the  Gryce  girl  is  in  with  the 
German  gang?"  asked  Farley. 

The  Commissioner  shook  his  head.  "Not  at 
all.  It's  her  story  that  the  Record  is  going  to 
print.  She's  on  the  level,  and  the  Department 


296  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

of  Justice  is  afraid  something  may  have  hap- 
pened to  her.  But  every  man  they  have  is 
needed  to  round  up  de  Grecque's  gang — if  they 
can.  Some  of  them  they  know,  but  most  of  them 
probably  know  that  they're  suspected ' 

He  paused,  out  of  breath.  Farley's  eyes 
gleamed.  After  all,  the  job  wasn't  to  be  entirely 
taken  away  from  him. 

"I  know  where  the  Gryce  girl  was  last  night. 
At  least,  if  Fallen  told  the  truth — a  house  in 
Forty-seventh  Street,  he  said.  Didn't  know  the 
number,  but  described  it.  He  may  have  been 
lying — Gryce  said  his  daughter  was  at  home, 
but "  * 

"Send  somebody  up  there,"  snapped  the  Com- 
missioner. 

Farley  shook  his  head.  "I'll  do  it  myself, 
Commissioner.  It  may  need  a  little  more 
Tact 

"Just  as  you  say,  Captain,"  assented  the  Com- 
missioner. 

Farley  was  in  the  subway  three  minutes  after- 
ward. Of  course,  it  was  not  his  job;  he  should, 
ordinarily,  have  detailed  a  plainclothesman  to 
this  affair,  but  Farley  was  the  sort  who  hated  to 
be  a  subordinate.  As  Captain  in  the  Detective 
Bureau  he  was,  of  course,  responsible  to  the  Com- 
missioner; but  his  superior  rarely,  if  ever,  inter- 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES     297 

fered  with  the  Captain's  methods.  But  to-day 
was  an  extraordinary  occasion.  The  Commis- 
sioner would  handle  the  investigation  himself — 
Farley  got  that  at  once — and  the  Captain  much 
preferred  being  "out  on  the  street"  rather  than 
being  a  nonentity  in  his  own  office.  Farley 
craved  action,  always. 

He  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  the  house 
which  Fallon  had  described.  And  little  more 
difficulty  in  obtaining  an  entrance.  A  competent 
policeman  can  force  a  lock  as  quickly  as  a  com- 
petent burglar. 

He  almost  stumbled  across  the  body  of  Fal- 
Jon.  And,  just  beyond  Fallon,  lay  a  coloured 
woman.  But  she  was  uninjured.  Bound  and 
gagged,  fright  rendered  her  speechless  for  sev- 
eral minutes  after  Farley  had  released  her,  but 
then  she  told  a  story  that  amazed  the  Captain, 
and  that  made  it  certain  beyond  a  doubt  that  he 
had  done  well  in  listening  to  Fallon's  every  word 
last  night. 

But  she  didn't  know  much  about  the  reason 
for  Lydia  Gryce's  having  rented  a  house  for 
herself.  She  was  a  not  too  intelligent  coloured 
woman.  She  only  knew  that  Lydia  had  en- 
gaged her,  had  paid  her  well,  and  that  Lydia 
had  never  spent  a  night  here  until  yesterday. 
Beyond  that,  awed  into  truthfulness,  Farley  felt, 


298  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

by  the  sight  of  his  uniform,  she  could  tell  him 
nothing. 

He  telephoned  the  nearest  precinct  and  waited 
until  a  uniformed  policeman  arrived  to  guard  the 
house.  The  coloured  servant  was  not  hurt;  she 
needed  no  medical  attendance.  She  could  con- 
tinue on  the  routine  of  her  life  as  usual. 

But  de  Grecque  or  his  gang  might  send  some 
one  back  here — it  was  not  at  all  probable.  But 
it  would  do  no  harm  to  leave  some  one  here. 

On  the  street,  Farley  communed  deeply  with 
himself.  Fallen  had  demanded  money  from 
Miss  Gryce,  according  to  the  coloured  woman. 
This  bore  out  Fallen's  story  to  Farley.  And,  as 
he  had  decided  some  little  while  ago,  incredible 
matters  were  not  to  be  dismissed  because  incred- 
ible. 

He  walked  to  the  subway  and  took  an  express 
train  south.  At  Fourteenth  Street  he  alighted 
and  walked  up  Irving  Place.  It  was  the  matter 
of  a  moment  for  him  to  ascertain  the  new  address 
of  the  landlady  who  had  been  the  tenant  of  the 
destroyed  lodging  house. 

She  was  in  the  neighbourhood  and  was  not 
averse  to  recounting  the  story  of  her  wrongs 
again. 

Farley,  as  Captain  of  Detectives,  had  read  the 
routine  report  of  the  matter.  But  now,  knowing 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES     299 

that  Lydia  Gryce  had  been  named  as  perpetra- 
tor of  the  outrage,  his  interest  was  all  in  the  de- 
scription of  the  woman  who  was  supposed  to 
have  deposited  the  bomb  in  the  room  of  the 
lodger  "Curtiss." 

The  description  answered  that  of  Lydia  Gryce. 
Lydia  Gryce  was  too  well  known  a  personage 
for  Farley  never  to  have  seen  her.  Fallen,  then, 
had  told  the  truth  in  part.  And  the  young  lodger, 
in  whose  room  the  bomb  had  been  left,  might  well 
have  been  Deems.  Farley  knew  practically  every 
newspaper  man  in  the  city,  and  the  landlady's 
recounting  of  the  appearance  of  "Curtiss"  made 
him  willing  to  believe  the  story  of  Fallon  still 
further.  But  why  had  Deems  been  masquerad- 
ing? But  such  questions  could  wait.  There 
was  no  sense  in  tangling  his  wits  trying  to  solve 
every  angle  at  once;  one  thing  at  a  time. 

He  was  on  the  threshold  when  he  turned  back 
for  one  more  question. 

"Any  one  else  come  here  that  might  have  left 
the  bomb?  Think,  now.  Sure?" 

The  landlady  shook  her  head.  "Nobody  but 
a  woman  leaving  washing  on  the  top  floor." 

"Big  bundle?"  demanded  Farley,  quickly. 

"Well,  yes." 

"Who  was  she?" 

The   landlady   shook   her   head.     "I   dunno. 


300  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Kinda  fat,  stodgy,  blondish  sort  of  woman — I 
never  saw  her  before.  She  insisted  that  Mr.  Tay- 
lor— he's  a  tenant  on  the  fourth  floor  front  of 
my  place  that  was — that  Mr.  Taylor  had  left 
some  washing  with  her.  So  I  let  her  go  up.  She 
came  down  in  a  minute  leaving  the  washing  be- 
hind her.  At  least,  I  suppose  she  did.  She  didn't 
have  the  bundle — say,  she  was  a  kinda  German 
looking  woman,  at  that." 

"Where  has  Mr.  Taylor  gone  to  live?"  asked 
Farley. 

"I  dunno,  but  I  know  where  he  works." 

Farley  was  in  the  subway  again  in  five  min- 
utes. The  morning  was  advancing,  and  he  was 
hungry;  he  was,  therefore,  not  altogether  sorry 
that  Mr.  Taylor  had  not  arrived  at  his  place  of 
business  when  he  reached  there.  Sleeplessness  is 
conducive  to  hunger,  and  Captain  Farley  had 
been  up  all  night.  Ordinarily,  he  went  home,  like 
the  average  citizen,  to  dinner  at  seven,  but  a  re- 
organisation of  the  department  had  made  him, 
for  two  weeks,  work  nights  instead  of  during 
the  days.  He  had  cursed  this  change  many  times 
recently,  but  now  he  was  grateful  for  it.  It  gave 
him  a  chance  to  get  in  on  something  and  distin- 
guish himself. 

But  a  man  could  be  glad  of  his  opportunity 
and  still  be  sleepy  and  hungry.  He  ate  an  enor- 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES  301 

mous  breakfast  and  then  approached  again  Tay- 
lor's place  of  business. 

Mr.  Taylor  was  not  averse  to  talking.  Thq 
bomb  incident  at  his  boarding-place  had  varied 
his  drab  days  as  a  bookkeeper.  He  was  supplied 
with  conversational  material  and  mental  specu- 
lation for  years  to  come. 

But  he  knew  nothing  of  any  washerwoman. 
He  patronised  a  Chinese  laundry  and  was  per- 
fectly contented.  He  was  sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  help  the  Captain.  In  fact,  if  the  Captain 
would  come  around  at  lunch — the  boss  was  awful 
cranky,  and  he  couldn't  take  time  off  now — he'd 
advance  to  the  Captain  certain  theories  that  he'd 
formed  in  regard  to  the  bomb  matter. 

Captain  Farley  was  grateful  but — some  other 
time.  He  permitted  Mr.  Taylor  to  shake  his 
hand  effusively  and  then  he  boarded  a  subway 
train  again. 

Lydia  Gryce  had  given  Fallen  a  check.  Far- 
ley was  quite  convinced  of  that.  But  some  one 
else  had  had  the  opportunity  to  commit  the  very 
crime  for  silence  concerning  which  Lydia  Gryce 
had  paid  Randolph  Fallon  money. 

Farley  would  form  no  snap  judgments.  Lydia 
Gryce  had  been  doing  secret  work  for  the  Gov- 
ernment. That  was  evident  from  what  had  been 


302  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

told  the  Commissioner  regarding  the  story  that 
her  father  had  sent  to  the  Record  Office. 

He  unfolded,  as  he  settled  himself  in  the  sub- 
way train,  the  newspaper  that  he  had  bought 
from  a  vociferous  newsboy  outside  the  station. 
Avidly  he  read  the  whole  story. 

How  Lydia  Gryce,  who  had  never,  so  far  as 
was  publicly  known,  been  anything  more  than  a 
charming  member  of  society,  knew  the  things 
which  were  related  here,  Farley  could  not  un- 
derstand. But  Stephen  Gryce  had  ordered  them, 
so  a  "box"  at  the  top  of  the  story  said,  printed. 
Evidently  Gryce  feared  no  libel  suits. 

And  there  was  material,  if  the  story  were  false, 
for  a  dozen  libel  suits.  The  Comte  de  Grecque 
was  named  as  von  Schoental ;  it  was  stated  flatly 
that  he  was  a  German  spy ;  conversations  between 
Senator  Randall  and  de  Grecque  were  printed. 
There  was  no  statement  that  actually  proved  that 
the  Senator  was  guilty  of  treason,  but  his  po- 
litical career  was  ended,  that  was  certain.  And 
bankers  were  named,  and  great  merchants,  all 
of  them  German  in  their  nativity  or  in  their 
ancestry. 

It  was,  Farley  shrewdly  judged,  a  story  that 
might  have  been  greatly  enlarged  upon  had  there 
been  time,  but  the  circumstances  had  prevented 
Lydia  Gryce  from  writing  what  later  informa- 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES      SOS 

tion  she  might  have  gathered.  What  sort  of  cir- 
cumstances were  evidenced  in  Fallen's  dead 
body,  in  the  raid  on  Gryce's  home? 

That,  too,  was  referred  to  in  the  Record's 
story.  The  Record  was  none  too  modest;  but, 
then,  Farley  admitted,  the  Record's  publisher 
had  done  a  big  thing  in  getting  the  story  to  his 
paper  in  the  moment,  almost,  of  his  death. 

For  that  Gryce  was  alive,  Farley  could  not 
believe.  However,  de  Grecque  was  a  well-known 
man;  he  could  hardly  hope,  with  the  whole  na- 
tion knowing  of  his  guilt,  to  escape.  Punishment 
at  least  would  be  visited  upon  him  and  his  asso- 
ciates. But — finding  the  whereabouts  of  those 
associates 

He  left  the  train  at  Twenty-third  Street  and 
walked  east  to  Lexington  Avenue.  He  had 
learned  something — something  that  might  prove 
quite  important — by  visiting  Irving  Place  and, 
later,  Mr.  Taylor.  He  might  learn  more  at  the 
bookshop  of  Heinrich  Graffe. 

He  started  as  he  looked  at  the  woman  clerk 
who  lazily  walked  forward  to  meet  him.  She 
was  a  stout,  blonde,  Teutonic-seeming  woman. 
And  her  story  had  been  that  a  woman — so  the 
police  reports  through  which  he  had  glanced  told 
him — had  left  a  bomb  in  the  place.  Indefinable 
suspicion  seethed  in  Farley's  brain. 


304  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"I  am  Captain  Farley,  of  the  Detective 
Branch,"  he  told  her.  The  woman  eyed  him 
languidly. 

"Yes?" 

"I  want  to  know  all  that  you  can  tell  me  about 
that  bomb  business  yesterday." 

"I  have  told  it  to  several  policemen,  and  to 
the  reporters,  also,"  she  answered.  She  shrugged. 
"Why  should  I  tell  it  again?" 

The  average  person,  meeting  her  eyes,  and 
finding  that  they  did  not  lower,  would  have  seen 
in  her  simply  a  stolid,  ignorant  woman  who  was 
extremely  honest.  But  Farley,  in  his  police  ca- 
reer, had  talked  with  thousands  of  criminals,  and 
hundreds  of  them  had  been  insane.  In  the  eyes 
of  this  woman  he  found  that  peculiar  gleam  that 
only  a  doctor  or  a  policeman  would  have  noticed. 
And  so  he  was  infinitely  more  soothing,  more 
suave,  than  he  would  have  been  ordinarily. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "It's  a  shame  to  bother 
you,  but  there  are  just  a  few  little  details  that  I 
don't  understand.  You  don't  know  a  Mr.  Tay- 
lor, do  you?  A  bookkeeper  at  the  Northern  Ink 
Company's  Broad  Street  office?" 

She  shook  her  head;  but  into  her  eyes  there 
leaped  that  gleam  which  he  had  observed  a  mo- 
ment ago. 

It  was  a  random  shot;  even  the  Irving  Place 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES  305 

landlady's  description  of  the  alleged  washer- 
woman, which  so  closely  corresponded  to  this 
woman,  would  not  have  caused  him  to  aim  it. 
But — this  woman  was  squat,  stocky,  strong. 
Lydia  Gryce  was  a  slim  girl,  as  Farley  remem- 
bered her.  She  was  athletic,  he  supposed,  but 
this  woman  was  extraordinarily  strong  of  ap- 
pearance. 

"Where  did  the  woman  put  her  bomb?"  he 
asked. 

She  showed  him  the  spot  on  the  floor. 

"And  where  were  you?"  he  asked. 

She  showed  him  where  she  had  been  standing. 
It  was  at  a  point  much  nearer  the  door  than 
where  Lydia  Gryce,  according  to  the  woman, 
had  stood. 

"Did  you  know,  at  first,  what  it  was?"  he 
asked. 

"Right  off;  the  very  minute  she  put  it  down," 
was  the  answer. 

Farley  eyed  her;  she  had  been  between  Lydia 
Gryce  and  the  door;  she  should  have  been  able 
to  stop  her.  Instead  of  which,  Lydia  Gryce  had 
managed  to  get  out  of  the  shop  and  into  a  taxi, 
and  drive  off  before  the  woman  had  recovered 
her  wits.  Only — why  should  her  wits  have  needed 
recovery  ?  How  had  she  been  able  to  tell  that  the 
thing  placed  on  the  floor  had  been  a  bomb  ? 


306  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Farley  knew  what  sort  of  a  bomb  it  had  been. 
A  woman  would  hardly  be  expected  to  recognise 
it  for  what  it  was  at  first  glance. 

He  lowered  his  eyes ;  he  looked  away  from  her. 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  a  bomb?"  he  asked 
mildly. 

"How?  Why — I  just  knew  it  was,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered.  "I  suppose  Graffe 
made  lots  of  them." 

"Graffe?    My  employer?" 

"Sure.    We've  locked  him  up." 

She  stared  at  him.  "Locked  him  up?  What 
for?" 

"There  was  another  bomb;  down  on  Irving 
Place.  That's  why  I  asked  you  about  Mr.  Tay- 
lor. A  bomb  was  left  in  his  room  there.  The 
landlady  says  that  Graffe  left  it  there.  Graffe 
denies  it,  though." 

"Of  course  he  denies  it,"  she  cried.  "He 
didn't  do  it." 

"Taylor  saw  him,"  asserted  Farley.  "Right 
up  on  the  top  floor  he  saw " 

"He  lies,"  she  exclaimed  hotly.  "It  was  in 
Curtiss's  room — in  Deems's  room,  that  the  bomb 
was  left,  and " 

"That's  what  you  say.  But  how  do  you 
know."  There  was  a  sneer  in  Farley's  voice. 


CAPT.  FARLEY  INVESTIGATES     307 

"It  was  in  the  papers,"  she  said. 

"So  it  was,"  he  answered.  "Only — they  said 
the  man's  name  was  Curtiss.  You  called  him 
Deems." 

"But  that  is  his  real  name,"  she  retorted. 

Farley  stepped  a  little  nearer  to  her.  He  had 
been  lucky;  mighty  lucky.  Often  the  insane  are 
more  shrewd  in  covering  their  tracks  than  the 
sane.  But  sometimes  they  are  transparent  as 
glass.  This  woman  belonged  to  the  latter  class. 

There  was  no  way  in  which  she  could  have 
known  that  "Curtiss"  was  really  Deems,  without 
having  information  that  was  guilty.  And  he  had 
seen  many  insane  people  break  down  in  his  pub- 
lic career. 

He  reached  into  his  pocket.  At  sight  of  what 
he  brought  forth  the  woman  screamed.  She  tried 
to  leap  aside,  but  Farley  was  too  quick  for  her. 
The  handcuffs  were  locked  about  her  wrists  be- 
fore she  could  gather  that  enormous  strength  that 
she  possessed.  And  with  the  fastening  of  the 
manacles,  the  stolidity  of  her  vanished.  Her  eyes 
no  longer  held  a  transient  gleam  of  insanity ;  they 
were  wholly  insane.  But  she  talked,  talked  flu- 
ently, boastfully — and — as  events  proved,  truth- 
fully. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

DEEMS   SEES 

FROM  the  restraining  hands  of  his  followers  de 
Grecque  broke  loose.  Policemen,  uniformed  po- 
licemen, revolvers  in  their  hands,  were  swarming 
into  the  room.  One  of  them  was  within  three 
feet.  A  revenge  was  not  so  sweet  to  the  thought 
of  de  Grecque  that  it  made  him  forget  what 
yawned  inevitably  before  him.  He  had  time- 
lie  knew  that — to  fire  only  once.  And  he  turned 
the  shot  against  himself.  Better  this  way  than 
after  many  days  of  anxious  waiting. 

It  was  the  only  shot  fired ;  the  rest  of  his  men 
surrendered  without  resistance.  And  two  hours 
later,  in  an  office  of  the  Federal  Building,  Deems 
waited  for  the  solution  of  the  mystery  in  which 
he  had  become  so  thoroughly  involved.  A  high 
official  of  the  Department  of  Justice  turned  to 
Captain  Farley: 

"I  suppose,  Captain,  that  it  will  be  quite  un- 
availing for  us  to  hope  that  the  woman,  Minna, 
will  testify?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  answered  Farley.  "She  went 

308 


DEEMS  SEES  809 


raving  crazy  before  I'd  got  her  down  to  Head- 
quarters. That's  a  common  thing;  a  maniac  will 
hide  his  or  her  insanity  up  to  a  certain  point ;  if 
they  aren't  caught,  they'll  often  lead  sane-seem- 
ing lives  long  after  they've  committed  their 
crimes.  But  accuse  them  and  they  break  down. 
But  we  don't  need  her  evidence.  There's  enough 
without  her." 

"But  how  did  you  come  to  discover  her  part  in 
the  affair?"  demanded  Rogan.  "She  was  my 
clerk,  my  housekeeper — the  last  person  I'd  have 
suspected.  Why  on  earth  did  she  do  it?  Crazy, 
I  know  you  say,  but — what  put  it  into  her  head?" 

"She's  German.  You  knew  that,  of  course." 
Farley  smoothed  the  lapel  of  his  uniform.  These 
were  important  people  here,  and  he  hoped  that 
he'd  made  a  lasting  impression.  He  had  visions 
of  a  private  detective  agency,  and  Stephen  Gryce 
would  not  be  a  bad  first  client.  Newspapers  had 
lots  of  investigating  to  do. 

"I  knew  it,  yes,"  admitted  Rogan.  "But  she 
was  so  loyal " 

"I  think  she  was,  at  that,"  conceded  Farley. 
"She  just  went  nutty,  that's  all.  Heard  so  much 
bomb  talk — I  found  out  where  she  got  them. 
There's  a  place  on  the  East  Side  I've  had  my 
eye  on  a  long  time.  You  can  hire  a  murder  for 
twenty  dollars,  and  get  a  bomb  for  a  hundred, 


310  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

if  you're  anxious  to  do  your  own  killing.  And 
one  of  the  men  that  runs  the  place  happens  to  be 
a  German.  She  knew  him  a  good  many  years. 
He's  talked,  too.  She  wranted  the  stuff.  He 
asked  no  questions.  He  supposed  she  wanted  it 
to  blow  up  some  government  plant.  He  didn't 
care.  The  Germans  aren't  fussy  about  what 
damage  is  done,  provided  it's  damage. 

"Anyway,  she  got  the  bombs.  Now  she's  gone 
crazy.  She  wanted  to  get  her  boss.  Not  for  any 
reason  in  particular,  but  she  wanted  you,  Mr. 
Rogan.  And  Deems  here — he  was  your  friend. 
She  wanted  him,  too.  So  she  went  to  Deems's 
place — she  carried  the  bomb  in  a  big  bundle  of 
newspapers  and  pretended  to  be  a  washerwoman. 
There  was  a  list  of  names  outside  the  front  door 
of  the  house  Deems  was  stopping  in.  She  read 
one  of  them — the  name  Taylor,  and  asked  for 
him.  The  landlady  let  her  in.  She  knew  where 
Deems's  room  was.  Heard  him  telling  Rogan. 
She  left  the  bomb  and  beat  it.  Then  she  planted 
her  second  bomb  when  Miss  Gryce  came  in.  She 
thought  that  you  were  in  the  apartment  upstairs, 
Rogan.  Miss  Gryce  left  and  Minna  followed  her 
out.  She  expected  the  thing  to  go  off  in  a  sec- 
ond, and  she  wanted  to  clear  herself,  and  so  she 
began  hollering  after  Miss  Gryce's  taxi." 


DEEMS  SEES  311 


"She  gave  me  the  number  of  the  taxi  later," 
said  Rogan. 

"Exactly,"  said  Farley.  "Part  of  her  game  of 
innocence.  She  thought  that  that  was  safe 
enough.  Didn't  occur  to  her  that  the  machine 
might  be  traced.  And,  if  it  was,  she'd  swear  that 
Miss  Gryce  did  it.  A  queer  mixture  of  cunning 
and  ingenuousness,  like  every  insane  person." 

"But,  Miss  Gryce,  why  did  you  go  to  my 
shop?"  asked  Rogan. 

The  girl  coloured.  Up  to  now  she  had  been 
silent,  clinging  closely  to  her  father,  avoiding 
even  the  eyes  of  Deems. 

"Hennig  the  waiter  told  me  that  a  Mr.  Curtiss 
was  at  the  Booklovers'.  He  described  him  and  I 
knew  that  it  was  Mr.  Deems.  At  least,"  arid  her 
blush  grew  more  profound,  "I  thought  that  it 
was.  I  wanted  to  make  sure.  I  followed  him 
from  the  Royal  Restaurant,  I  saw  him  enter  the 
shop  of  Heinrich  Graffe.  This  man  Graffe,  I 
knew,  was  concerned,  somehow  or  other,  in  the 
Booldovers'  activities.  I  decided  to  investigate 
Mr.  Deems  at  once.  When  he  left  his  lodging 
house  I  entered  it.  The  landlady  let  me  into  his 
rooms.  I  found  a  manuscript  there  that  made  me 
certain  that  he  was  a  traitor.  Then  I  went  to 
Graff  e's  bookshop.  I  wanted  to  get  a  good  look 
at  Graffe.  But  he  was  not  in. 


312  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

"Later,  Fallen  came  to  me.  The  business  that 
I  was  engaged  upon  was  too  important  for  me  to 
risk  any  police  interference.  It  was  better  to  give 
Fallen  the  money  he  wanted.  I  had,  practically, 
all  the  evidence  that  I  needed  against  de  Grecque. 
But  the  man  for  whom  I  was  working  was  in 
Washington.  Until  he  was  here,  prepared  to 
spring  the  mine,  I  could  not  risk  publicity,  or 
any  interference  whatsoever.  I  gave  Fallen  the 
check  that  he  demanded.  And  I  sent  a  wire  to 
the  man  who  engaged  me."  She  looked  toward 
the  Department  of  Justice  official,  who  bowed. 

"But  what  I  want  to  know,"  boomed  the  heavy 
voice  of  Gryce,  "is  how  Lydia  ever  got  started; 
on  this  thing." 

The  high  official  smiled.  "Miss  Gryce  was  in 
Washington  attending  a  ball,  Mr.  Gryce.  She 
overheard  the  Comte  de  Grecque  speaking  to 
Senator  Randall.  It  seemed  like  queer  talk  to 
come  from  a  patriotic  Frenchman  who  had  been 
wounded  in  his  country's  service.  She  told  me 
of  it.  We  put  some  feelers  out.  We  got  infor- 
mation. We  learned  what  de  Grecque  was.  But 
we  wanted  to  know  just  whom  it  was  that  he 
worked  with  and  for.  Miss  Gryce  agreed  to  help 
us." 

Lydia  smiled  at  her  father.  "I  suppose  that 
I  must  tell  the  rest,  Father.  I  watched  the  Comte 


DEEMS  SEES  313 


de  Grecque.  I  knew  that  he  had  an  appointment 
with  Senator  Randall's  secretary.  I  was  at  a 
table  near  where  they  were,  in  the  Royal  Restau- 
rant. That  restaurant  was  de  Grecque's  head- 
quarters. I  saw  a  paper  pass  from  the  secretary 
to  de  Grecque  and  I  heard  de  Grecque  exclaim 
my  father's  name.  I  followed  de  Grecque  out: 
He  did  not  notice  me.  And  I  saw  another  man 
— it  was  Mr.  Rogan — brush  against  him  and  pick 
his  pocket.  And  I  remembered  the  pickpocket" 
— she  smiled  at  Rogan — "had  also  been  in  the 
restaurant.  And  I  placed  him.  He  had  been 
pointed  out  to  me  as  a  man  dismissed  from  the 
Secret  Service  because  of  charges  made  against 
him  which  he  had  been  unable  to  disprove. 

"De  Grecque  felt  Mr.  Rogan  touch  him.  He 
stared  at  him,  felt  in  his  pocket  and  then  fol- 
lowed Mr.  Rogan.  Mr.  Rogan  entered  an  apart- 
ment house,  and  de  Grecque  hesitated  a  moment. 
Then  he,  too,  entered.  He  came  out  almost  im- 
mediately and  waited  across  the  street.  Then  an 
ambulance  came  and  Mr.  Rogan  was  carried  out. 
I  telephoned  a  Secret  Service  agent  in  town  here. 
He  had  Mr.  Rogan's  body  examined.  At  least, 
that  was  the  report  made  him  by  the  police.  They 
said  that  they  had  examined  Mr.  Rogan's  body 
and  found  no  paper  at  all." 

Rogan  laughed.    "If  he'd  said  that  he  was  a 


814,  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Secret  Service  agent  he  might  have  got  truer  in- 
formation. The  doctor  in  charge  of  my  little 
case  was  a  man  I'd  known  years  ago;  before  I 
grew  a  beard.  I  came  to.  I  reminded  him  of 
old  times.  He  offered  to  help  me.  He  didn't 
believe  that  I  was  the  crook  the  State  Depart- 
ment thought  me." 

"Sh-sh,"  said  the  Department  of  Justice  man4 
"That's  all  over  now." 

Rogan  smiled  happily.  The  girl  continued: 
"I  felt  certain  that  Mr.  Rogan  must  have  given 
the  paper  to  Mr.  Deems.  I  visited  his  rooms  in 
the  morning " 

Gryce  shook  his  head  amazedly.  "Lydia, 
where  did  you  get  the  nerve?" 

"From  you,  Father,"  she  flashed.  Her  father 
beamed.  "And  I  found  a  paper  there.  I  thought 
that  it  was  the  one  I  wanted.  But  it  was  a  blank 
and  I  decided  that  Mr.  Deems  had  sold  out  to 
de  Grecque,  or  was  himself  treacherous — a  friend 
of  Rogan — I  didn't  know  that  Mr.  Rogan  was 
honest,  and  that  he  stumbled,  half-dying,  into 
Mr.  Deems's  room — and  I  thought  that  my 
father  had  really  written  a  letter.  Oh,  if  I'd 
known  exactly  what  its  contents  purported  to  be 
I'd  have  known  you  hadn't  written  it,  Father," 
she  exclaimed.  "But  you  might  have  been  in- 
cautious  " 


DEEMS  SEES  315 


"I  was,  my  dear,"  said  Gryce,  solemnly.  He 
turned  to  Farley.  "But  you  haven't  told  us  how 
you  located  us,"  he  said  questioningly. 

"De  Grecque  was  a  mighty  careful  man,  and 
he  planned  as  capably  as  any  criminal  that  ever 
lived,"  said  Farley.  "But  he  overlooked  some- 
thing; that  Central  makes  a  record  of  calls,  and 
that  they  can  he  traced. 

"Of  course,  as  soon  as  the  big  story  broke,  I 
knew  that  I'd  never  really  talked  with  Mr. 
Gryce.  I'd  talked  with  somebody  else.  But  it 
was  before  Mr.  Gryce's  place  had  been  raided 
by  de  Grecque's  gang,  so  I  knew  that  I  really 
hadn't  got  Mr.  Gryce's  home  even.  But  I 
couldn't  find  out  in  a  hurry  where  the  cut  in  his 
wires  had  been  made — might  have  been  any  one 
of  a  dozen  places,  and  might  have  been  done  a 
week  or  more  ago  under  pretence  of  fixing  the 
'phone.  But  if  the  disconnection  had  not  been 
made  too  long  ago,  I  could  find  whoever  had  been 
talking  with  Mr.  Gryce's  house  in  the  past  few 
hours. 

"Well,  I  had  Central  look  them  up — all  the 
calls  for  his  number  in  the  last  couple  of  days. 
And  I  began  with  the  most  recent  ones.  Of 
course,  my  own  call  was  down  on  the  list,  and  I 
hadn't  really  got  the  number.  But — there  were 
others — among  them  a  call  from  the  Hotel  Ger- 


316  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

aid  and  from  a  house  on  Forty-seventh  Street- 
why  did  you  have  that  house,  Miss  Gryce?"  he 
interrupted  himself  to  ask. 

"I  wanted  some  place  in  which  I  might  be  safe. 
A  refuge.  I  didn't  know  that  I'd  ever  need  it, 
but " 

Gryce  looked  sadly  at  her.  "If  only  I  hadn't 
been  blind,"  he  said. 

She  patted  his  hand. 

"Well,  I  tried  all  the  calls,  but  none  of  them 
seemed  to  fit.  That  is,  I  had  my  men  investigate 
them.  And  then,  there  was  that  one  from  the 
Gerald.  It  was  early  yesterday " 

Gryce  nodded.     "De  Grecque  called  me  up." 

"Yep.  I  found  out  that  a  man  named  de 
Grecque  had  called  you  up.  And  the  hotel  peo- 
ple told  me  that  this  de  Grecque,  a  French  no- 
bleman, had  had  a  run-in  with  Mr.  Gryce  last 
night.  Of  course,  by  the  time  I'd  got  there,  the 
newspaper  was  on  the  street — been  out  an  hour, 
and  they  were  all  in  a  fever.  And  I  looked  up 
the  incoming  calls  to  de  Grecque.  Several  of 
them  had  come  from  the  Bryant  Park  house, 
and — there  you  are." 

The  Department  of  Justice  official  nodded  ap- 
provingly. 

"Extremely  clever  work,  Captain.  Quick 
thought." 


DEEMS  SEES  317 


"And  quick  action,"  exclaimed  Gryce.  "If 
the  Captain  hadn't  followed  his  discoveries  up — 
we'd  have  been  killed." 

Captain  Farley  hid  a  smile  with  his  hand.  It 
was  a  triumphant  smile.  He  could  see  that  pri- 
vate detective  agency  as  a  reality  now. 

The  Department  of  Justice  official  arose.  It 
was  a  signal  that  the  conference  was  at  an  end. 

"This  will  be  a  speedy  trial,"  he  said.  "An 
example  is  needed.  I  am  sorry  that  we  have  not 
de  Grecque  a  prisoner.  An  execution  is  more 
salutary  in  its  effects  upon  others  than  a  suicide. 
But — there  are  the  others.  Mr.  Rogan,  if  you 
will  report  to  Washington  there  are  duties " 

Rogan  eyed  him.  He  had  a  weak  heart,  but — 
one  might  as  well  die  in  action  as  in  idleness. 

"My  dismissal " 

"Is  withdrawn.  Reinstatement  with  full  pay 
during  your  vacation,"  smiled  the  official. 

"Looks  good  to  me,"  said  Rogan.  "And  no 
censure  for  my  working  on  a  lone  hand,  and 
butting  into  real  efficient  workers  like  Miss 
Gryce?" 

"No  censure,"  smiled  the  official. 

Rogan's  eyes  clouded.  He  turned  his  back. 
The  others  could  see  his  shoulders  moving  up  and 
down.  But  when  he  turned  again  there  was  no 
trace  of  the  brief  storm  that  had  passed  over  him. 


318  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

He  had  been  a  man  without  honourable  place  for, 
a  long  time,  but — it  was  all  forgotten.  He  had 
won  back  to  his  own  again. 

"Sleep,"  said  Stephen  Gryce,  "is  important  to 
an  oldster  like  myself.  You  young  people  now — 
have  we  a  decent  place  to  put  up  your  brother 
Bob,  Lydia?" 

"My— brother  Bob?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Yes.  Little  brother  Bob  Deems  Gryce," 
grinned  the  publisher. 

The  girl  bestowed  upon  her  father  one  of  those 
glances  which  children  give  to  parents  who  are 
taking  too  great  liberties.  Gryce  withered  under 
the  glance. 

"Don't  get  mad  with  your  Daddy,  girlie,"  he 
said.  "You  and  I  have  been  friends  too  short  a 
time  for  a  quarrel.  I  simply  meant — you  know, 
I  told  this  young  man  that  if  I  couldn't  have  him 
as  a  son-in-law  I  was  going  to  have  him  as  an 
adopted  son,  so " 

"Father!"  exclaimed  Lydia.  But  her  cheeks 
were  pink! 

"Listen."  Gryce  was  suddenly  serious. 
"We've  embarked  on  something  big,  children. 
Something  so  big  that  we  none  of  us  can  see  the 
end.  I  have  been  blindest  of  all.  I  have  been  one 
who  had  visions,  who  saw  the  triumph  of  Right, 


DEEMS  SEES  319 


without  the  battle  against  Wrong.  As  if  Right 
would  be  worth  achieving  unless  there  were  strug- 
gle for  it.  A  world  to  which  goodness  had  come 
without  effort  would  be  a  world  redeemed,  it  is 
true,  but  a  world  which  had  done  nothing  to  de- 
serve Redemption. 

"Wrong  is  an  existent  force.  It  must  be 
fought  against,  must  be  stamped  out.  I  have 
been  one  of  those  who  foolishly  would  have  wel- 
comed Wrong  across  my  threshold.  But  my  eyes 
are  opened  for  good  now.  I  see  that  one  must 
not  let  Wrong  in;  one  must  destroy  it  outside. 
To-day  Wrong  is  armed  against  Right.  Right 
cannot  try  to  convert  Wrong.  Right  must  slay 
it.  And  so — great  changes,  changes  such  as  the 
wisest  could  not  have  foreseen,  are  ahead  of  us. 

"Happiness,  placid  happiness  such  as  we  have 
known  in  the  past,  can  be  for  none  of  us  who  are 
right-thinking.  There  must  be  suffering — there 
must  be  agony.  And  so,  those  who  have  a  chance 
to  snatch  at  happiness — 'the  old  order  changeth'. 
A  week  from  now  Deems  may  be  embarked  upon 
a  new  career.  I  hope  so." 

"I  intend  to,  sir.  That's  why — I  asked  you 
not  to  mention — 

"Pooh,"  said  Gryce.  "My  daughter  is  a  brave 
girl.  She  will  not  hesitate  to  give  her  all.  But 
— I  would  not  have  her  hesitate  to  take  her  all. 


320  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

Lydia,  my  dear,  I  am  a  foolish  old  man,  and  pre- 
sumptuous. But  I  have  been  watching  you  the 
past  hour,  and — my  darling,  the  country  is  going 
to  ask  for  Deems.  It's  going  to  ask  for  all  its 
young  men.  I  am  going,  this  day,  before  I  sleep, 
to  write  an  editorial.  I  am  going  to  uphold  the 
proposed  draft  legislation  and,  incidentally,  de- 
mand the  withdrawal  of  Randall  from  the  next 
Senatorial  contest.  He  will  withdraw."  The 
wide  mouth  shut  grimly. 

"The  young  men — to  do  what  the  wiser  men 
have  decreed  is  necessary.  And,  in  the  years  to 
come,  if  Wrong  should  ever  lift  its  head  again, 
the  young  men  of  to-day,  the  older  and  wiser  men 
in  those  distant  years — they  will  send  the  young 
of  that  day  out  to  uphold  Right.  To  the  young 
comes  the  call,  upon  them  devolves  the  duty. 
And  there  have  been  men — myself  among  them, 
God  forgive  me — who  have  denied  the  righteous- 
ness of  the  cause,  have  denied  the  right  of  the 
state  to  demand  its  citizens'  lives.  I  recant  to- 
morrow morning  in  the  Record. 

"And  now,  my  dear,  because  there  is  unhappi- 
ness,  dread  sorrow,  for  all  of  us,  I  tell  you — post- 
pone not  your  happiness.  My  dear,  let  the  eyes 
of  your  father  be  the  only  eyes  of  ours  to  have 
been  blind.  And  let  not  false  pride  keep  your 
eyes  closed;  let  not " 


DEEMS  SEES  321 


Lydia  stared  at  her  father.  Higher  and 
higher  as  he  spoke  the  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks. 

"Daddy,"  she  said  at  length,  "you  are  speak- 
ing like  a  preacher,  and — I'd  like  to  be  thor- 
oughly disrespectful  to  you." 

Gryce  chuckled.  "I  am  without  honour  in  my 
own  household.  Go  ahead,  my  dear." 

"I  think  that  you  are  a  very  tired  man,"  she 
said,  "and  you  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"God  bless  me,  you're  probably  right,"  he 
said. 

His  shoulders  were  heaving  as  he  left  the  room. 
He  might  have  been  weeping,  but  he  probably 
was  laughing. 

Lydia  turned  to  Deems.  "If  you  will  excuse 
me,  Mr.  Deems " 

He  shook  his  head.  He  was  looking  after  her 
father. 

"What  a  sane  man!"  he  exclaimed.  "How 
clearly  he  sees!  Remarkable  man!  I  wouldn't 
disregard  his  advice  for  anything  in  the  world. 
So  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  marry " 

"Mr.  Deems!"  Her  colour  was  the  red  of 
anger  now. 

And  then  his  disarming  grin  swept  over  his 
face. 

"Please,  Lydia,  marriage  isn't  solemn.  Love 
is  a  laughing  boy.  And  I  want  to  laugh.  I  don't 


322  THE  EYES  OF  THE  BLIND 

want  to  promise  you  things  now.  I  don't  want  to 
tell  you  that  I  think  you're  the  most  remarkable 
woman,  intellectually  and  as  regards  courage, 
that  I  have  ever  known.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you 
that  I  will  lay  my  life  down  for  you.  I  don"t 
want  to  tell  you  that  I'll  be  in  the  army  in  a  few 
days,  that  I  have  no  right  to  ask  any  woman  to 
share  the  uncertainty  of  my  future.  I  don't  want 
to  be  solemn.  I  don't  even  want  to  make  a  serious 
proposal.  I  want  to  laugh.  I  want  to  say  to 
you,  'Lydia  Gryce,  you're  a  bully  girl,  and  I 
love  you,  and  I  think  I  could  make  you  laugh  a 
thousand  times  a  day,  and  I'm  an  irresponsible 
sort  of  cuss,  and  I  haven't  any  money  to  speak 
of,  and  I  wouldn't  take  your  father's,  but  I'll  dig 
up  enough  for  a  three  days'  honeymoon,  and  then 
I'll  go  back  to  work  long  enough  to  buy  my  uni- 
form and  then  I'll  go  to  Plattsburg,  and  you'll 

smile  when  I  go,  and ' '  He  paused. 

"That's  what  I'd  like  to  say  to  you,  only  I  don't 
like  the  last  part  of  it.  The  'smile-when-I-go* 
part.  Aside  from  that,  that's  what  I'd  like  to 
say  to  you." 

She  stared  at  him.  The  colour  left  her  cheeks. 
Pale,  her  eyes  shining,  she  met  his  glance. 

"Well,  Bob,  why  don't  you  say  it,  then?"  she 
asked. 

THE  END 


A     000120029    4 


